


Sim Sala Bim

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Brotherhood, Bullying, Family, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Magic, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Levinson had always thought his little brother was a pain in the ass, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still his job to look out for him. </p>
<p>(S3 AU in which Andrew is born a Levinson.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 16, 1998

Mondays sucked. Absolutely, always, irrefutably. It was as if the bullies pent up all their energy over the weekend, and when they arrived in school on Monday morning, they were just itching to warm up their fists with their favorite punching bag – _that_ would be Jonathan. Joy.

Mondays meant long, hard days that could never end fast enough. The Sci-Fi Club met on Mondays, but Jonathan never stayed; the moment the bell rang, he was out the door as quickly as his legs could carry him.

Today, when the door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoed through an empty house. That wasn’t particularly surprising. Jonathan’s parents didn’t get home until almost dinnertime, and his little brother didn’t have the same qualms about attending afterschool clubs on Mondays. So Jonathan took advantage of the silence to crank the radio up to full volume as he warmed a chocolate-chip cookie in the microwave and sucked down some milk directly from the carton.

He didn’t mind the quiet. It was nice to have some time to himself, when no one bothered him and he could lick his wounds in peace. He could watch whatever shows he wanted, collapse in front of _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ or _X-Files_ , and try to forget that he had school the next day. Sure, it wasn’t the most _companionable_ of afternoons, but it certainly beat having to field his little brother’s needy bids for attention, at any rate.

The microwave dinged, and Jonathan took out the cookie, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of melted chocolate. If there was one thing his little brother was good for, it was his forays into baking – he had some raw talent. Plate of cookie in one hand, and the carton of milk in the other, Jonathan made his way into the living room and placed his snack on the coffee table.

He had just started flipping through the _Deep Space Nine_ VHS tapes when, suddenly, the front door banged open again.

Jonathan scrambled upright. There was no way his parents would be home this early, and his brother’s club wasn’t supposed to end for another hour. And, sure, vampires needed an invitation, but in Sunnydale, you didn’t take chances. There were other dark things that didn’t need to wait for the sun to set.

But when Jonathan peered around the corner into the entrance hall, a fire poker gripped tightly in one hand, he let out a sigh of relief. It seemed his brother had just missed Sci-Fi club as well, for once.

“Andrew,” he greeted. “What are you doing? You’re home early.”

Andrew had his back turned to Jonathan, his head down as he untied his shoes. “Hi. Yeah, club was boring. I decided not to go.” There was a pause. “You can put that down. I’m not a vampire.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry . . .”

But then, as Andrew straightened, Jonathan noticed that he was holding himself a little strangely; he had his head turned to the left, and he didn’t seem to want to meet Jonathan’s eyes. Jonathan stepped towards Andrew’s hidden side and craned his neck – Andrew jerked back, but not before Jonathan caught glimpse of a shining blue and purple bruise rising on one cheek under his left eye.

“Andrew . . .”

“It’s nothing,” Andrew said sharply. “I fell down the stairs. Mind your own beeswax!” Color rose in his face, and he ducked his head.

For a long moment, Jonathan could say nothing; he just stood, open-mouthed, in the center of the entrance hall, fire poker hanging loosely from his slack fingers. He was a long-time customer of the very same excuse, and too often had _he_ been the one cowering and hiding his bruises to believe that Andrew hadn’t gone to Sci-Fi club because it had been _boring_. Besides, he knew Andrew; if Andrew had truly fallen down the stairs, he would have been whining and complaining and showing off his “awful” bruise at every given opportunity until everyone was truly sick of him. This wasn’t a question of clumsiness.

Sure, Jonathan was aware that Andrew had planted himself firmly in the geek crowd since he’d started high school last year, and that there were taunts and teasing that inevitably came with that kind of title. But even in the lower rungs of the social ladder, there was a kind of hierarchy of loserdom. Jonathan had always thought Andrew was high enough up to escape the worst of it. He had never expected his little brother to come home cowering and bruised.

He swallowed, and gently leaned the fire poker up against one wall. “ . . . Sure,” he said finally. “Well, you should probably put some ice on that.  It will keep the swelling down. Want me to get some for you?”

Finally, Andrew looked at him, and in the one eye that he wasn’t covering, Jonathan could see gratitude mingling with the lingering fear and confusion. “Please,” Andrew murmured.

Jonathan nodded, and turned for the kitchen.

By the time he returned, Andrew had made his way into the living room and had collapsed on the couch, still using one hand to cover his swollen eye. Jonathan perched himself on the seat next to him and held out an icepack swathed in paper towels.

“Thanks,” Andrew mumbled, taking the pack and pressing it up to his purple cheek.

“Sure,” Jonathan replied. “Uh, you hurt anywhere else? From where you . . . fell?”

Andrew hesitated, evidently uncertain about letting Jonathan help. But as he shifted his shoulders, affecting a proud, aloof demeanor, a sharp pain made him flinch. “Yeah,” he admitted finally. “My back. It hurts, but I don’t know if it’s bleeding or not – I can’t see.” As if to emphasize, Andrew twisted his neck around to crane over his shoulder, and winced.

“Want me to look?” Jonathan offered.

“Would you?”

“Yeah.”

Andrew scooted himself over on the couch and turned so that his back was facing Jonathan. The movement made him let out a sharp hiss of pain, and Jonathan winced in sympathy.

The back of Andrew’s shirt was dirt-streaked, and a few stray pieces of gravel still clung to the fabric. When Jonathan pushed the shirt up, he saw that there were more bruises coloring Andrew’s back, and a few light scrapes were dotted with tiny scabs. But the cuts weren’t deep, and it seemed that the bleeding had stopped long ago.

Gingerly, Jonathan pulled the fabric back down. A tight ball of anger had settled itself at the pit of his stomach. When he’d been pushed around and tormented at school, he’d always thought he was the only one. No one got picked on like Jonathan did. But now, here Andrew sat in front of him, with a swollen eye and a scabbed back – and sure, his brother was a pain in the ass, but he didn’t deserve _this_. No one did.

“It’s okay,” he told Andrew finally. “There’s a few cuts, but they’re not bleeding anymore, and they look clean. Just soak them when you take a shower tonight.”

“Okay,” Andrew replied. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

There was an awkward pause. Jonathan and Andrew looked at each other, neither quite sure what to say next. Andrew obviously still wasn’t willing to talk about what really happened, and Jonathan wasn’t entirely sure how to be comforting about . . . falling down the stairs. So, they just sat there, side by side, in an uneasy silence.

“Um,” Andrew said after a moment, and gingerly pushed himself up from the couch. “I guess . . . I guess I’ll go start my homework?”

Jonathan sighed a breath of relief. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do that too.”

“Cool,” Andrew said.

“Cool.”

* * *

Several hours later, when their parents arrived home, they both made a noisy fuss over the bruise on Andrew’s cheek. But Jonathan corroborated his story about falling down a flight of stairs, going so far as to make it sound as if he’d been there to watch as Andrew’s face collided with the railing – and so, with only a few gentle admonishments about not running in the school hallways, the topic was dropped.

Andrew’s injuries couldn’t have been too bad anyway, because when their father asked him if he wanted to help make dinner, his face had lit up like a beacon, and he’d literally _bounced_ up from the couch.

That evening, the conversation around the dinner table was light and comfortable; their mom asked Jonathan how his history test had gone, and Andrew whined about how his biology teacher _totally_ had it in for him. At one point, Andrew kicked Jonathan under the table for stealing the piece of pie that he sworehad the most meringue on it, but Jonathan just kicked him back and pretended not to notice when Andrew swiped a large spoonful of the meringue off the top of his slice.

After dinner, Jonathan and Andrew migrated back to the living room, where they placed a bowl of unbuttered popcorn on the coffee table and promptly started squabbling over what tape to pop into the VCR.

“Oh, come _on_ , the next episode of _Xena_ is ‘Callisto’!” Andrew urged, clutching his chosen tape to his chest like a teddy bear. “Even _you_ think that episode is gold!”

“Yeah, but we watched _Xena_ last night, and the night before that!”

“Well, that’s the point of a back-to-back rewatch, isn’t it?”

Jonathan snorted. “Dude, we are not watching only _Xena_ for the next three months! We’re watching _Deep Space Nine_ tonight!”

“But you’ve already seen ‘The Wire’ like a hundred times,” Andrew muttered petulantly.

“Still a good episode!”

“But—!“

“Rock-paper-scissors?” Jonathan interrupted.

Andrew paused, and then eyes narrowed. “I accept your challenge.”

One remarkably heated round of rock-paper-scissors later (and despite several pleas of “best of three!”), Andrew was scowling sulkily on one corner of the couch, while Jonathan popped his tape out of its case. Jonathan did not stick his tongue out at Andrew; he was far too old for such immature behavior. But there was nothing stopping him from flicking a piece of popcorn in his brother’s direction as he got up to put the tape in the VCR player.

By the time the opening theme began, Andrew had pulled himself out of his sulk, and he was enthusiastically singing along to the instrumentals. Jonathan did not join in – unlike Andrew, he actually was embarrassed about being off-key – but he conducted with a finger.

The brothers lapsed easily into their comfortable routine; Andrew murmured along to half the lines, and occasionally Jonathan would tell him to shut up, but he never really meant it. He himself ended up shouting over Andrew when he recited his own favorite moments. The bowl was passed between them, and as the plot unfolded, the level of popcorn was slowly depleted.

“Garak and Bashir had _such_ a good dynamic,” Jonathan declared at some point half-way through the bowl. He waved his hand in emphasis at the screen, where Bashir and Garak circled one another in Garak’s quarters. “It sucks so much that they didn’t have many episodes together later on.”

“Yeah, totally,” Andrew agreed.

Jonathan nodded gravely.

There was a long pause.

But then, Andrew inhaled audibly, and he rushed on: “You know, I heard the show stopped those episodes because the networks thought they were coming off as too, uh . . . too gay. I think people were complaining.”

Dubious, Jonathan frowned. “Wait, seriously? _Gay_? But doesn’t Bashir have Jadzia, and Garak have Ziyal?”

“First of all, the whole Ziyal thing was weird, and I totally reject him having a thing for her,” Andrew retorted. “But anyway, aren’t there some people who like . . . both?”

“Both . . .?”

“You know, like, guys _and_ girls?”

Jonathan considered this. “ . . . Well, I suppose.”

“So do you . . .” Andrew swallowed slightly and twisted at the hem of his shirt. “Do you think there was something between them?”

“Garak and Bashir, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Jonathan shrugged. “I never really thought about it before. But I guess it makes sense.”

Andrew was watching him now, a peculiar expression flitting across his face. But he just nodded, and wordlessly turned back to the TV screen.

For the rest of the episode, Andrew was oddly quiet. Jonathan glanced at him once or twice, wondering if he was plotting some sort of prank, but Andrew just appeared to be lost in thought. By the end credits, he was staring at his hands, his fingers twiddling together on his knees.

The blue screen came on as the tape ran out, and Jonathan picked up the bowl and peered inside. “There’s like a handful of popcorn left,” he said. “Do you—?“

“Jonathan.”

Jonathan blinked and glanced up. Andrew was looking at him with wide eyes, and as Jonathan met his gaze, he swallowed, and dropped his gaze back to the floor. His hands resumed fidgeting.

“ . . . Yes?” Jonathan said after a moment.

“Um . . . well. I was just wondering . . . uh.” Andrew’s voice sounded more high-pitched than usual, and he suddenly broke off to heave a steadying breath. Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

There was a pause.

But then, Andrew squared his shoulders and pushed on: “Well, uh . . . what if . . . what if _I_ was like Garak?”

Jonathan frowned. “ . . . What, a spy?”

“No! I mean . . . liking _both_.”

“Huh?” Jonathan replied blankly. “‘Liking both’? What do you--?” But then, he trailed off mid-sentence, his eyes widening. “ . . . Oh. _Oh.”_

Anxiously, Andrew shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

“Oh, um. You . . . you do?”

“I think so?” Andrew finally met Jonathan’s eyes, although his gaze was still nervous and jumpy. “I mean . . . I-I _really_ like watching Timothy Dalton’s Bond movies, like . . . _a lot._ But I definitely still liked B’Elanna Torres, too, and it was confusing! So, um . . . when I was in the guidance office about my schedule for next semester I-I took one of those pamphlets, and there was a page about people who are bisexual, and – and . . .” He swallowed hard, but bravely lifted his chin. “I think that’s what I am.”

“Oh,” Jonathan replied faintly. “Huh.” He stared at Andrew, struggling to organize his thoughts into some semblance of order. He had not expected this at all – sure, in retrospect, perhaps it shouldn’t be all that surprising, but he’d just never thought . . . He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

“Um . . . do Mom and Dad know?” he asked finally.

Andrew shook his head. “N-not yet – you won’t tell them, right?” He spoke quickly, fixing Jonathan with a wide-eyed, pleading stare.

“Uh, sure. I don’t think they’ll mind, though, you know.”

“I know,” Andrew replied. “Just . . . just not yet.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Andrew was still staring at Jonathan, obviously waiting for something more. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, and he was chewing his lip nervously. Jonathan, however, didn’t really know what to say. He cast his mind about for something – anything – that might give him some pointers. But for all that he’d memorized the _Starfleet Technical Manual_ , the rules of fifteen separate Dungeons and Dragons universes, and the complete vocabulary for four different Elvish languages, there was nothing to suggest what to do when your little brother unexpectedly revealed that his obsession with Timothy Dalton was more than innocent admiration.

Finally, Jonathan reached out and uncertainly patted Andrew’s shoulder – once, twice. “Cool,” he said. “Um. Yeah.”

He knew it was woefully inadequate and hopelessly awkward, but it seemed to work. Andrew relaxed, and a small smile pulled at his lips.

There was a short silence.

Then, Jonathan picked up the bowl again and proffered it to Andrew. “So, uh, did you want to finish the popcorn or not?”  

 


	2. November 17, 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some homophobic language in this chapter.

The next morning, the sun was hidden from view behind a thick veil of low, grey clouds. The Californian November weather was usually rather comfortable in temperature, but today, the heavy misting made it feel about ten degrees colder and infinitely more miserable. Jonathan tugged the cuffs of his sweatshirt sleeves down over the edge of his fingertips and crossed his arms, huddling in on himself against the outside world.

“Come _onnnnnn_ ,” came Andrew’s high-pitched whine, from a half-step behind him. “I know you have it – just give it to me!”

Jonathan suppressed a heavy sigh. The walk to school, while uncomfortable, would have been tolerable if _only_ Andrew would leave him alone. They could have a nice, quiet hike – a peaceful start to a long day. But no – Andrew bounced along beside him, apparently unperturbed by the gloomy weather, and needled Jonathan as if his life depended on driving his brother up the wall before they even set foot in the school.

“For the last time, Andrew,” Jonathan said, with strained patience. “I do _not_ have your Batman pen!”

“Yes, you do! I left it on the kitchen table, and then when I came back, it was gone, and I saw you put it in your bag!”

“That’s _my_ pen,” he retorted. “We have identical ones, remember? I took that pen from my desk this morning.”

Andrew scowled. “Then where’s my pen?”

“I don’t know. You probably moved it and then forgot. Did you check _your_ bag?” He gestured at Andrew’s messenger bag, which was adorned with a Timothy Dalton button and Starfleet keychain.

“It’s not in my bag! I _know_ I put it on the kitchen table – you took it!”

“ _I did not take your pen!”_  

Still squabbling, they turned the corner on the sidewalk and began to head down the school’s drive. Other students passed by them, the trickle of teenagers slowly becoming a throng as they moved closer to the school.

“I know you have my pen,” Andrew insisted as they crossed by the parking lot. “And I won’t talk to you until you give it back!”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll steal your pens more often, then.”

“So you admit--!”

“I still didn’t steal _that_ pen!” he interrupted. “But, anyway, I thought you weren’t talking to me?”

Andrew huffed and crossed his arms, indignantly lifting his chin.

A small gang of junior boys passed by them on the left, sniggering unkindly. Jonathan recognized two of them as members of the swim team, and he shrank back slightly.

“Can you _believe_ he laid us off for study group?” the tallest boy was saying. “Goddamn, and how’s that any way to treat your dudes, anyway?”  

“Yeah, what a fag,” said another.

Beside Jonathan, Andrew flinched.

It was a small movement, so quick that Jonathan almost missed it: Andrew’s gaze flickered over to the second speaker, a startled expression crossing his face, and his left hand fluttered nervously over the Timothy Dalton button on his bag. By the time Jonathan turned his head to look at Andrew properly, the hand had already dropped back to his side, and he was staring resolutely ahead.

But Jonathan was certain he’d seen that flinch. And in that moment, he _understood._

Jonathan hated being picked on. For years, the torment he endured at his classmates’ hands had made school a living hell. He’d been harassed, pushed around, beaten, half-drowned . . . and if the bruises last night had been any indication, Andrew’s high school experience wasn’t going much differently.

But the fact of the matter was: for Andrew, everything could get so much worse.

Jonathan had had more than his fair share of homophobic slurs hurled at him; he’d been called ‘fag’, and ‘pansy’, and ‘cocksucker’. But his tormentors had never truly believed the names they called him. They were just words – cruel, derisive words spat at him to convey the depths of their disdain. Andrew, on the other hand . . . a cold chill gripped Jonathan’s chest. There were large, burly hockey players who liked to shove Jonathan’s head in the toilet just because he was short _._ What would they do to a kid who _actually_ embodied their favorite slurs?

Jonathan swallowed hard, his eyes trained on Andrew’s face, where the bruise from yesterday still shone, purple and puffy and undoubtedly painful. Andrew still hadn’tspoken about the incident. Dread weighed heavy in Jonathan’s belly – had someone guessed? Why _had_ Andrew come out to him yesterday, anyway?

The junior boys moved on, oblivious to the wheels turning in Jonathan’s head. Andrew continued to stare straight ahead, but when Jonathan stepped a little closer to him and shot a surreptitious glance down the sidewalk behind them, he glanced down.

“Andrew . . . ,” Jonathan murmured, voice low.

Andrew blinked.

Before Jonathan could say anything more, something hard and heavy slammed into him from behind. He let out a yelp and held up his hands to defend himself, tensing his shoulders in expectation of the coming blows.

But it was just Jessica Albright, a tall, blonde senior girl in Jonathan’s calculus class who always seemed to be a little frazzled.

“Oh, gosh – Jonathan! I am _so_ sorry!” she exclaimed, dancing aside as one hand continued to rifle frantically through her purse. “I wasn’t paying attention; I was looking for my math homework – are you okay?”

“Fine,” Jonathan muttered, secretly a little taken aback that she remembered his name.

“Oh, thank God,” she replied fervently, and shot him a weak smile. “Seriously – I am so sorry!” She darted off, still rummaging through her purse.

“What were you going to say?” Andrew asked, as Jessica moved on.

But Jonathan just shook his head. “Nothing.” There were too many people around. Jessica seemed like a nice enough girl, but . . . they couldn't risk being overheard. “Let’s just get to class. The bell’s going to ring soon.”

Andrew looked at him strangely, but he didn’t press.

The two started their way up the steps to the front of the school. Jonathan twisted at one strap of his backpack, stealing sidelong glances at his brother.

He knew that he was going to have to talk to Andrew eventually. As much as Andrew obviously wanted to avoid discussing what had happened yesterday, Jonathan had to _know._

He heaved a deep breath, feeling his gut knot in on itself. He had never liked these kinds of conversations – confrontation, even well-intentioned, made his palms sweaty and his heart feel tight in his chest. Jonathan would have been more than happy to follow Andrew’s lead and brush everything under the rug, but . . . there was a difference between bullied and being _in danger._

This afternoon, maybe. After school, before their parents got home. He’d talk to Andrew in the kitchen, because he seemed comfortable there. He’d gently express his concern, and then ask Andrew how bad things really were. Just simple yes or no questions, something like: “Do the guys picking on you know you’re gay?”, and “Are you scared for your safety?”.

Jonathan paused then, and suppressed a snort. He sounded like one of those damn pamphlets the nurse tried to push on him once a month. He’d been avoiding the exact same kind of questions from his parents and teachers for years – what made him think that they’d work on Andrew any better? And it wasn’t as if he had any idea what to do if Andrew’s answer to either question was ‘yes’.

Swallowing, he wiped his palms against his pants. Maybe if he just kept an eye on Andrew, instead. No questions, no uncomfortable conversations – just kept watch. If things got worse, then he would . . . well, he could figure something out then, he supposed.

Still, the knot in his belly remained.

Andrew had apparently finally given up on his missing Batman pen, and had instead launched into a play-by-play analysis of the most recent issue of _X-Force._ Jonathan usually would have jumped on the chance to argue that the original X-Men were way cooler (Cable had absolutely _nothing_ on Cyclops), but today, he just nodded along, not really listening.

They had just turned the corner to the stretch of sophomore lockers, past a large, glittery poster (“ _Seniors: Don’t forget your deadlines! College applications are due soon!_ ”) when Andrew suddenly broke off in his ramblings, and paled.

Jonathan glanced up, pulled out of his own thoughts by the unexpected lapse in one-sided conversation. He followed Andrew’s gaze.

Halfway down the row of lockers, three scowling teenagers had clustered together. Unlike the other students gossiping in the hall, they had their backs turned to each other as they peered about with intense gazes, as if they were standing wait for something by their locker – no, Jonathan realized with a sinking heart: _Andrew’s_ locker.

Andrew had snatched Jonathan’s wrist and was tugging him back, simultaneously trying to hide his face behind Jonathan’s shoulder. “Uh, I ch-change my mind; I don’t need to go to my locker. Let’s, uh, go to the library. Um. Or your locker. We didn’t do that yet!”

Jonathan nodded immediately. “Yeah, good idea.” He stepped back, not turning so as to give Andrew better coverage behind his small stature. His heart had begun to pound in his chest; the gang of boys standing before them were not the same ones that tormented Jonathan, but the image was terrifyingly familiar. Jonathan forced himself to breathe slow and steady. He needed to appear calm – his nerves would only attract the bullies’ attention.  

They almost made it back around the corner – they were just two feet from the freedom of invisibility when a sudden, strident laugh cracked through the air.

“Hey – look, it’s _Levinson_!”

The disdain coating the name was so thick that Jonathan flinched. But today, the taunt wasn’t directed at him.

The gang of hulking teenagers strode up the hallway, and, as if Jonathan wasn’t there at all, the tallest one grabbed Andrew’s forearm and wrenched him away from the corner.

Andrew let out a squeak and tried to twist away, but the other boy’s grip held firm.

“Morning,” the tall kid said, with a wide, cruel smile.

Andrew winced. “H-hi, Kyle.”

“Where’s my essay? It better be good – I promised Ms. Beakman she’d be giving me an A.”

Andrew was still ineffectually trying to pull away, but now he lifted his chin and met the other boy’s gaze. “I d-didn’t do it,” he replied, evidently trying to sound brave despite the quaver in his voice. “Write your own essay!”

The smile hardened. “ _Didn’t do it_? Didn’t you learn _anything_ from our little talk yesterday?” Meaningfully, Kyle let his eyes linger on the dark bruise on Andrew’s cheek.

Jonathan let out a breath. If yesterday’s incident had been about a _paper_ , maybe no one yet suspected about Andrew liking other guys. Not that it made being pushed around any better, of course, but . . . there was less chance of the situation escalating into something truly dangerous.

Still, though – this guy had purpled Andrew’s cheek, and Andrew had _still_ refused to write the paper. Either he was very brave or very stupid. Or both. Jonathan swallowed hard, nervously eyeing the three bullies.

“You’re in luck,” Kyle continued. “Lit isn’t until eighth period. You have until then to get me my paper.”

There was a glint in his eye that made Jonathan’s stomach flip over. He glanced over at Andrew, willing him to _please_ not cause trouble for himself—

“I won’t,” Andrew replied.

Jonathan stifled a groan.

“What’d you say, _retard_?” The hand that had been wrapped punishingly around Andrew’s forearm suddenly shoved him back against the wall. Andrew yelped as his back collided with the locker behind him, and he tried to squirm away. But then the hand was back, pinning his arm to the cold metal, and Kyle’s other hand was pressed against his opposite shoulder.

Andrew visibly swallowed.

“I asked you a question,” the boy hissed. “What _did you say_?”

Now that he was trapped, his back pressed up against the cold lockers, Andrew seemed to reconsider his defiant stance. “N-nothing,” he squeaked. “Eighth . . . eighth period, g-got it!”  

This time, all three of the burly teenagers laughed, and it was a cold sound that sent a shiver down Jonathan’s spine.

“Glad to hear it,” Kyle said. “But before you go get started, I’m just gonna make sure the lesson’s taught good and _lasting_.”

Frantically, Jonathan glanced around, but, as typical, the other students were just hurrying by, their gazes averted. There were no teachers in sight.

When he looked back to Andrew and the gang, he saw that one of the other boys was pulling his arm back, his hand curled into a fist. Andrew had his eyes closed and was turned away, tensing himself for the blow.

 _Oh, God_ , Jonathan thought weakly.

“Leave him alone!” he cried out. His voice sounded whiny and nasally even in his own ears, but it was enough to draw the bullies’ attention.

Kyle turned to him, eyebrows lifted in vague surprise.

Quickly, Jonathan stepped forward and slipped under the Kyle’s arm to stand between him and Andrew. “I _said_ leave him alone!” He put both hands on Kyle’s chest and shoved – Jonathan wasn’t very strong, but it startled Kyle enough to make him stumble back, his hands slipping off Andrew’s arm and shoulder.  

Jonathan stepped forward, pushing more space between Andrew and Kyle. He clenched his fists at his sides in an attempt to disguise the trembling in his hands.

“Andrew, get to class,” he hissed under his breath.

But Andrew, wide-eyed and shaking slightly, shook his head. “A-and leave you alone? Jack O’Neil says—!”

“I’m not lost on the other side of the Stargate!” Jonathan snapped. The last thing he needed right now as for Andrew to draw on television heroics. “I’ll handle this. _Go to class_.” Admittedly, he was feeling a little queasy, and as he stared up at the three teenagers around him, he found himself thinking that this was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever done – but he’d seen the bruises on Andrew’s back. He couldn’t let this become Andrew’s reality like it was his.

Andrew scowled. “I don’t need you to—!”

“Go to class, or – or I’ll tell Mom how you _actually_ got that bruise.”

Andrew looked horrified, and a little betrayed. But it seemed to shake his resolve enough; when Kyle began to raise his hand, preparing to shove Jonathan out of the way, Andrew finally saw the sense in leaving. Quickly as a ferret, he slithered through the gap between the lockers and the nearest bully, and by the time any of the three had managed to turn after him, he was darting down the hall.

“Goddammit,” Kyle swore. “C’mon, let’s catch him. I wasn’t done with him.”

Jonathan swallowed. He knew he had to buy Andrew a little more time – his brother was fast, but not that fast. The three bullies were already beginning to turn away, completely ignoring Jonathan’s presence.

Thinking fast, he hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and barreled forward, ramming his skull into the gut of the nearest boy.

“ _The hell_ \--?”

With a wheezy grunt, the kid made a furious snatch at Jonathan’s shirt. But Jonathan, expecting the move, had already ducked down and slipped behind him; he paused just long enough to aim a sharp kick at a second bully’s shin, and then he turned and sprinted down the hallway in the opposite direction that Andrew had fled.

The ploy worked. Behind him, he could hear three sets of pounding footsteps as the bullies abandoned their pursuit of Andrew in favor of the kid who dared physically attack them.

Jonathan’s arms pumped, his breath coming harsh and heavy. He wasn’t as quick as Andrew, and the footsteps behind him were gaining fast. He only had about a second’s head start, and these kids were _athletes_. He couldn’t outrun them indefinitely. And that wasn’t even considering the very likely possibility that his body might decide to betray him by sending him into an asthma attack _at the very worst time_.

The library was right around the corner, just ten yards away. Jonathan skidded slightly on the tiles as he rounded the bend – he could almost feel the bullies’ bruising grip on his shoulder if they caught him – and he put on another spurt of speed for the last few feet.

He flung open the doors to the library and stumbled inside, flushed and breathing hard. Miraculously, his airways were still clear.

Unsurprisingly, the library was already occupied by Buffy Summers, Xander Harris, and Willow Rosenberg, who were all clustered around the large center table. Mr. Giles stood behind them, an old and heavy book splayed open in his hands. When Jonathan burst in, their conversation halted abruptly.

“Good . . . morning?” Mr. Giles said, his eyebrows slightly arched.

“M . . . morning,” Jonathan gasped in reply.  

“Can I help you with something?” Mr. Giles peered at him curiously, as if taken aback by his presence. Jonathan wasn’t sure whether Mr. Giles was more bewildered by the flush in his cheeks or simply by his _being_ in the library – most of the student body understood that Buffy and her friends had claimed the library as their territory and left it alone.

And Jonathan would be happy to do the same, just as soon as stepping outside didn’t mean receiving a painful black eye and a swirly. “Uh – I’m fine,” he replied, turning back slightly to glance out the window. As he’d expected, the bullies had stopped outside the door, unwilling to make a fuss under Mr. Giles’ nose. Instead, the three had stationed themselves directly across the hallway, and when Kyle caught Jonathan looking at him, he gave a cheery wave. Damn.

Jonathan swallowed. “I just . . . I just thought I’d . . . browse. For fun.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Giles said, with slightly forced pleasantness. “Well, it is admirable that you’re taking an interest in pleasure reading, but . . . ah . . . the organization is a little haphazard at the moment. New books, you know – lots of cataloguing to do. You might do to come back later today, when it will be easier to find particular titles.” He glanced over at Buffy, evidently anxious to continue their previous conversation.

“That’s okay,” Jonathan countered quickly. “I’ll just look for a bit.” He shot another glance out the window. The three had now settled themselves comfortably against the wall to wait.

Mr. Giles looked as if he were about to attempt to make another excuse to send him away.

But Willow was watching Jonathan. She followed his gaze through the window, where Kyle was still obviously leering maliciously, then glanced back to him, quietly considering his expression. When Mr. Giles opened his mouth to say something more, she cut in: “I, uh . . . I think browsing is a good idea.”

Mr. Giles looked a little startled, but Willow jerked her head slightly toward the library window. His eyes followed her direction.

“ . . . Ah.”

Jonathan dropped his gaze to the floor, feeling his face grow warm. He could almost hear the _click_ as Mr. Giles took in his disheveled appearance in a new light. With one foot, he scuffed at the floor.

“I’ll go send them away, then, shall I?” Mr. Giles’ voice was gentle, but Jonathan flinched all the same.

“ . . . I think I’d rather wait here until the bell rings, if you don’t mind.” He hated cowering behind someone else’s legs as it was. The lesser Mr. Giles’ intervention, the better. Besides, if Mr. Giles’ simply shooed away Kyle and his friends, and Jonathan left the library, there would still be a good ten minutes for Kyle to track him down again and give him a black eye before first period.

“You okay, man?” Xander asked.

“Fine,” Jonathan mumbled. He wished everyone would stop looking at him. He could feel the pity in their gazes.

But then Mr. Giles pushed his glasses higher up on his nose, and said: “Well – browsing, then. Ah . . . there are some excellent selections in the back shelves. Perhaps you should start there.”

Gratefully, Jonathan nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

He walked by the table (Xander clumsily hastened to plant an elbow in front of a stack of books) and headed to the shelves in the very furthest recesses of the small school library. As he moved away, the others bent in close together and started up their conversation again, in hushed whispers. Every so often, they glanced up at Jonathan, as if to judge how close he was to earshot, but he wasn’t too interested in the particulars of their secret operations. Whatever it was, it was bound to be dangerous. He was in this library to escape danger in the first place.

He slipped between the two shelves at the very back of the library. The books here were largely thick texts on Russian history – dull reading, really, but he wasn’t _actually_ here to find any light reading, and the others knew it. If they needed him out of the way so they could continue their plotting, fine.

Jonathan sank to the floor, his back up against the shelf behind him, and slid a random book into his lap. Idly, he flipped through the pages of _The Bolsheviks in Russian Society: The Revolution and the Civil Wars_ , not really taking in any of the words.

Leading the bullies away was only a short-term fix. Andrew was safe for the next hour or so, but when the other boys eventually caught up with him – and they would; it wasn’t a large school – their urge to purple more of Andrew’s skin would have only grown more intense with time and humiliation. Next time, Jonathan might not be there to divert them. Even if he were, the same tactics wouldn’t work again. He wasn’t strong; he wasn’t fast. The only thing he had going for him was surprise, and that was a one-time use coupon.

Jonathan sighed, staring unseeingly at the first page of chapter four.

Talking to teachers or their parents wouldn’t help. Even when adults believed him and wanted to help, well, the kids who had their minds set on hurting nerds and losers would always find a way. It was down to the nerds and losers to protect themselves – that was the only lasting defense against testosterone-fueled jackasses.

But _Andrew_ , apparently, had no self-preservation instincts. He was defiant and noble even when he was dwarfed and outnumbered, and he submitted only when he was pinned against the wall, the bullies’ clenched fists already aimed for his face. He couldn’t have riled them up more if he’d tried.

Andrew would learn; in time, he would learn what responses and what body language attracted only more unwanted attention, and how to escape confrontations with only a small handful of bruises. The thought made Jonathan feel cold.

He groaned, and turned his eyes skyward . . . and then, paused.

Along the very top shelves of the bookcases across from him, there was a row of old, leather-bound tomes, with peeling gold letters.

Carefully, Jonathan pushed himself to his feet. All Sunnydale High students knew that there were books in the library that no one was supposed to read – while there might not be a formal “ _do not touch_ ” sign, any time a student took one of those books down, Mr. Giles would appear by their side and quickly swap it out with another, tamer paperback. Jonathan himself had made one or two bids for the top shelf, but had never gotten close. But today, Mr. Giles was deeply immersed in his conversation with Buffy, and was paying him no heed.

Jonathan wasn’t entirely sure what the point was of having books in a library that you weren’t supposed to read, but enough students had gotten through at least a few pages for people to have a general idea what the forbidden books were about. Jonathan wasn’t fast, or strong, but maybe he wouldn’t have to be to help look out for Andrew.

He stepped up to the bookcase directly in front of him. The top shelf was _really_ high. He put his hands on the tallest shelf he could reach and tugged sharply; it held, so, carefully, he placed his feet on the bottom shelf and began to haul himself upwards. When he reached the top, he crossed his arms on the shelf to hold himself up, and peered at the spines.

Many of the books seemed to be in languages he’d never even heard of before – a few didn’t even have Roman lettering. And the others . . . _Catalogue of Supernatural Beasts of Southeast Asia, Demon Summoning for Fun and Profit . . ._ well, that last one certainly sounded like more trouble than it was worth.

Jonathan frowned. Demonologybooks wouldn’t help him; as much the kids who tormented him and his brother could act like overgrown hellbeasts, they were completely human. He needed a way to make them back off without _slaying_ them, and he was certain demonology texts almost invariably advocated hacking your enemy into little, bite-sized pieces. But determinedly, Jonathan just set his jaw and pulled himself over to the next shelf.

Here, he found historical diaries by monks, demon hunters, and Watchers, whatever those were. That was somewhat more promising; perhaps some old warrior monk had defended himself with some kind of magical spell and had written it down. But that would require _hours_ of research and careful reading. Jonathan moved on.

It was on the fourth shelf that he discovered a collection of instructional magical guides. _Basic Magical Skills_. . . well, perhaps, but being able to light a candle with a wave of his hand wouldn’t do much to help Andrew . . . _Deerne Enchaunmens_. . . whatever that meant . . . _The Encyclopædia of Advanced Spellwork_. . . he probably wasn’t _quite_ in that league yet. He was just about to jump back down and wander off to one of the other shelves – but then, almost at the very end of the row, he saw it: _Protective Spells for the Raw Beginner_.

It was a small, thin book, maybe a hundred pages long, with a soft leather cover and an embroidered title. It looked almost to be some sort of field guide; it was small enough to slip into a decent-sized pocket. As Jonathan slid the book off the shelf, he saw that it wasn’t as old as many of its companions. The pages were still crisp and close to white – it looked to be no more than ten years old. A modern magic book, then. Jonathan was vaguely surprised; he’d thought Mr. Giles had a penchant for the older texts.

Jonathan leapt down from the shelf and flipped open the book. On the first page, he found a preface of a photocopied letter written in ornate, flowing calligraphy. He read:

 _Dearest pupil_ ,

_Allow me to be the first to welcome you with open arms to the world of the magical arts. May your journey be full of light!_

_This book serves as instructional guide in the whitest of the magical arts. Through this course, you will learn to feel the lifeforce that flows through us all – human, animal, plant, and stone. You will learn to touch pure life, to encourage it and to heal it, and ultimately to defend it against the darkness that all too often permeates our existence._

_This book is designed for the first time listener to the mystical forces of the world. Readers who have already had their basic training in magic may find it prudent to skip ahead to Chapter Two. Anyone else, however, is strongly recommended to carry through the full preface to the course. A strong foundation is paramount to the proper use and execution of white magic._

_I wish you luck in your studies, through this course and beyond._

_Blessed be._

_\- Your Wizard, Glenn Rivers_

Jonathan flipped quickly through the rest of the book, his excitement growing. The first chapter seemed to comprise largely of exercises to get the reader in touch with their magical gifts, but then the book continued into an incredible array of the most perfect spells Jonathan could ever imagine. There were spells that sent out a shock if anyone tried to touch the protected subject with the intention of harm; spells that made one unnoticeable to passerbys; spells that made skin impervious to blows. The last section was dedicated to healing spells – mending broken bones, closing cuts, healing bruises.

Jonathan swallowed, thinking back on every single time he could have used one of these spells. If he could have made his tormentors’ grip slide right off him on his first day of high school – if he could have turned away the attention of adrenaline and testosterone-fueled boys when they were itching to channel their excess energy through their fists – if he could have made every punch feel like barely a tickle . . . He almost ached to think of how much agony he could have escaped. For a moment, he felt a twinge of resentment towards Mr. Giles for keeping this book out of his hands through years of torment.

But he heaved a breath and tried to ignore the weight in his heart. He had the book now, and Andrew would not have the same memories of high school that he did. Jonathan and the Wizard, Glenn Rivers, would see to that. Jonathan would help Andrew learn the self-defensive spells, and Jonathan himself could study warding and healing. And, he supposed, learning a few defensive spells for himself couldn’t hurt, either.

There was a squeak of chair against wood. Jonathan hastily stuffed the book into the front pocket of his backpack and assumed what he hoped was a bored expression, just as Willow leaned up against the railing from the level below.

“Hey,” she said, a small smile quirking at her lips. “I, uh, think they’re leaving now. And the bell will ring in a minute - I think you’re safe.”

Jonathan glanced up at the window; outside, he could make out the tall, imposing figure of Andrew’s first period teacher, Mrs. Krabbits, as she waved off the three bullies with one hand planted firmly on her hip.

Jonathan felt a flare of shame, hot in his belly. Stubborn Andrew – he really _couldn’t_ just walk away when Jonathan told him to. And, of course, Andrew had a face that teachers instinctively believed. When Mrs. Krabbits hadn’t found Jonathan or the bullies where Andrew had seen them last, she must have taken it upon herself to venture those extra few yards to the library entrance. Jonathan hunched his shoulders. Yet another Sunnydale teacher that would pity him.

But at least the bullies were leaving. The boys were scowling darkly in a way that surely meant future retribution, but they obediently backed away.  

Jonathan glanced back at Willow. “Uh. Yeah, thanks.” He shrugged the backpack higher up on his shoulders. “I guess . . . I guess I’ll go now.”

“’Kay. See you!”

He stepped down from the top level, and crossed behind Mr. Giles with his gaze trained firmly on the floor at his feet. He could feel the small book weighing inexplicably heavy in the front compartment of his backpack, but none of the others seemed to notice. Xander waved cheerily in good-bye.

At the window, Jonathan paused just long enough to determine that the coast was well and truly clear. When he saw no bullies lurking at either end of the corridor, he pulled open the door and slipped outside. One hand came up to pat at the front of his bag, as if concerned the book might have vanished from existence the moment he left the library. But the small square was still there, firm under his fingers.

So, with one final, furtive glance back to the library, Jonathan wrapped one hand tightly around the strap of his bag and set off quickly down the corridor.

*** * ***

All that day in class, Jonathan itched to pull the book out from his bag and open it under his desk. Focusing on the French Revolution when he had a whole book on _magic_ was borderline torture _._ But he was terrified of even the very slightest possibility that the book might be confiscated and sent back to the school library, where no doubt Mr. Giles would lock it up somewhere he would never find it again. So instead, he just fidgeted and shifted in his seat, until in calculus class, Jessica Albright asked him worriedly if he was okay.  

Finally, blessedly, the bell rang for the end of his last class of the day.

He heaved a heavy sigh of relief as he swung his bag onto his back. There was technically one more class period in the school day, but for Jonathan, it was scheduled as a free hour on Tuesdays, and senior privileges meant that he didn’t have to stay on campus. Because he was leaving early, the walk home was fairly deserted; the only people Jonathan ran into were the odd stoners who had skived off classes for a smoke, and they never bothered him. He hurried by them with his head bowed nevertheless, walking so quickly that he startled a couple making out behind a large oak tree.

Again, he arrived home to an empty house, but today, he did not even pause in the kitchen for a snack. Jonathan went straight up the stairs to his bedroom, where he tossed his backpack on the ground by his desk and quickly dug out the small, beautiful book from the front pocket.

Jonathan collapsed onto his bed. Lying prone on the mattress, he propped himself up on his elbows and flipped through the pages of the book to the first chapter.

His chest felt tight, and the tips of his fingers were hypersensitive – he wasn’t sure if it was more from nerves or excitement. He’d grown up in Sunnydale his whole life; magic and the occult lingered just around every corner – undiscussed, ignored, and always present. But this was the first time that he was jumping headfirst into that unspoken world, the first time he was reaching out to the forces that had been part of his life simply by virtue of his being born in Sunnydale. His fingers trembled slightly.

A part of him wanted to chuck the book away from him and turn his back on everything inexplicable, to be like his parents and screw his eyes shut against the supernatural forces that swarmed over his town. But . . . a larger part of him – just marginally bigger – was eager to change the realities he could no longer tolerate. For years, he’d ducked his head and just tried to _endure_ until the day he graduated. But now, Andrew was involved. And he could no longer just wait.

Jonathan sucked in a deep breath in an effort to loosen the knot in his chest. Then, he dropped his eyes to the heading of chapter one.

 _“Finding Your Inner Power,”_ the book read.

_“All of us, regardless of age, circumstance, or life experience, contain within us a life force that is one with the forces that govern our world. Performing magic is a question of reaching that power and directing it into the desired channels. However, very few of us are born with the innate knowledge of how to reach inwards and manipulate the power within us. For the rest of us, I have detailed a week-long training course; after completing the following exercises as dictated, and after studying the described background theory, you should be able to perform any of the spells in this book with practice.”_

Week-long. Jonathan made a face and turned the page. He scanned through a few paragraphs; the course Rivers had outlined seemed to largely consist of dense paragraphs about the nature of life force and the characteristics of white and dark magic, peppered with breathing exercises and meditation guidelines. It was so time-consuming, and so _simple_ – anticlimactic, really, for his first foray into the power and excitement of the world of magic.

Well, he supposed he ought to give this course a chance. He skimmed through the first breathing exercise, then closed his eyes obediently and took a few slow breaths.

But, after a grand total of about thirty seconds, Jonathan reopened his eyes and flipped ahead to the next chapter of the book.

He felt absolutely nothing, which meant that these early practices couldn’t make _that_ much difference, right? Maybe he was already in touch with his inner ‘life force’ after all.  

Jonathan skimmed through the list of level one spells at the start of chapter two. _Increased stamina . . . minor luck charm . . ._ but no, he needed something with tangible, immediate effects. Something like . . .

There, on the first page of chapter three: _rock skin_.

Jonathan peered warily down at the page. The spell was accompanied by a black and white illustration, which portrayed a bent arm with the craggy appearance of solid stone. It didn’t look particularly comfortable. At the very least, he was pretty sure turning your limbs to stone would leave them stiff and aching – and that wasn’t to mention that the transformation of human flesh to sharp, jagged rock sounded like a painful experience.

But Jonathan swallowed and squared his shoulders. He needed to test himself, and he was certain that whatever discomfort the spell might cause didn’t compare to the pain he’d already endured at the hands of his classmates – it wouldn’t be in a protective magic guide otherwise, would it?

The spell called for a candle, a rune drawn with sand, and a small selection of herbs. Jonathan tapped his finger on the page absently, considering. He supposed he could appropriate a candle from the collection of tea lights in the kitchen, and all the herbs looked like something he might find in the spice cabinet.  He didn’t have any sand, but . . . dirt would probably work, right? They were pretty similar.

He darted down the stairs and returned five minutes later with the ingredients, several handfuls of dry dirt stuffed into a Ziploc bag. Pushing aside a few stray papers, Jonathan cleared an area on the wooden floor next to his potted dracaena, and dropped the ingredients in the center.

It was with a trembling hand that he lit the candle, and when it came time to create the rune, he had to hold his wrist with his left hand to keep it still enough to sprinkle the dirt into something even vaguely resembling the illustration in the book. Fennel seeds and cloves went into the small flame next, and as the herbs sparked and curled in on themselves in the heat, they gave off an aromatic smoke that made Jonathan sneeze.

Finally, Jonathan pulled the small book into his lap and heaved a steadying breath.

The very last step of the spell was an incantation. Heart pounding in his chest, he read aloud with a dry mouth: “I call on thee, Heracles, hero and god of strength, arete, and protection – look upon me and grant me the strength of body to withstand with the might of mountains. Bless me with the endurance of stone!”

A spark leapt from the candle. With a squeak, Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut and held his arm out before him. He sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for the agony of the transformation. This was it – this was his very first spell – in moments, the forces of magic would converge upon him and turn his skin as hard as stone . . .

Nothing happened.

Jonathan cracked open one eye. Had the transformation occurred, and he just hadn’t felt it? But no – his arm looked exactly as it always had; pale, and a little pudgy. Definitely not stone.

He scowled and tossed another pinch of herbs on the candle.

“I call on thee, Heracles, hero and god of strength, arete, and protection!” he said again. This time, his voice was louder and a little breathless. “Look upon me and great me the strength of body to withstand the might of mountains. Bless me with the endurance of stone!”

But again, there was no burst of power, no discomfort, no miraculous transformation; absolutely nothing whatsoever happened.

Jonathan let out a snort of frustration and tossed down the book on a pile of crumpled college brochures.

He felt foolish. He’d never excelled at anything before in his life. He was slow, and weak, and everything about his physical stature seemed to _exude_ submissive loserdom. For him, even the saving grace of nerds – grades – were only mediocre. Sure, he understood the subject material fine, but when a test was laid in front of him, he would seize up, and his mind would go blank.

So _why_ would he ever think he might have any kind of talent in magic? Of course it’d be just like everything else he ever did – a failure.

His throat felt tight and painful, and he swallowed hard. With one last, furious glare at the book, Jonathan wrenched open the door, and fled his own bedroom.

* * *

After a slice of yesterday’s lemon meringue and a few battles on _Age of Empires II: Age of Kings_ , Jonathan had calmed down somewhat.

So what if he didn’t have any natural aptitude for magic? It wasn’t any different from tripping over his own feet in soccer or getting a B in subjects he knew like the back of his hand. Jonathan’s existence had always been a mediocre one, and adding yet another failure to the endless list of disappointments would change nothing.

Sure, he might have thought that being born in Sunnydale would practically make magic his _birthright_ , but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. The town had rejected and ignored him his entire life – why wouldn’t it deny him this as well?

So, feeling an odd sense of vindication at his own resignation, Jonathan wandered back up to his room and pulled out his mundane, non-magical homework. He couldn’t turn his skin to stone, but he would write this four-page essay on Maximilien Robespierre and receive an entirely unremarkable B+.

It wasn’t until several hours later, when he’d squeezed in the last of his required references and shoved the finished essay back into his folder, that he realized that Andrew hadn’t come back home.

Jonathan had just pushed the folder to one stray corner of the desk and leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted to the window, where the sky was beginning to go pink as the sun sank toward the horizon.

And he froze.

He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. It must be only about a half hour until sunset – and while Sunnydale wasn’t _quite_ so dangerous that venturing outside at night would mean certain death, it was still generally a good idea to be indoors once darkness fell. But the front door had never opened. Andrew was still out.

Jonathan jumped up from his desk and threw open the door, straining his ears against the quiet of the house. Maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention – maybe Andrew had come home hours ago, and Jonathan had just been too focused on his essay to notice.

“Andrew?” he called.

There was no answer.

Down the hall, Andrew’s room was empty. Jonathan made his way downstairs to the living room, then the kitchen – but again, there was no one there.

“Andrew!” he called again, louder.

Still, no one replied.

Jonathan swallowed, his chest tight. It wasn’t that it was entirely unheard of for Andrew to come home late – sometimes his after-school clubs ran over, or he decided to swing by the comic store on his way home – but the memory of the dark bruise on Andrew’s cheek made Jonathan’s skin crawl. The tall bully from that morning – Kyle – _had_ said he wasn’t done with Andrew . . . what if he’d caught him after class? Andrew could be trapped behind the school right now, cowering under the assault of entitled, self-righteous jocks, or locked in a supply closet somewhere, cold and wondering if anyone would hear him pounding on the door soon enough for him to get home in time for dinner . . .

Jonathan heaved a deep breath and forced back the memories that threatened to surface in his mind.

Yesterday was the first time Andrew had returned with physical injuries. He was probably perfectly fine. Statistically speaking, he was most likely down at the comic store again, drooling over the collectible figures he’d never been able to afford.

And yet . . .

Jonathan wandered back to the living room, and picked up the phone, as if weighing it in his hands. Andrew had a pager; if Jonathan paged him, and he called back, he’d _know_ Andrew was fine. But at the same time, he – and Andrew – would also know he’d been worrying pointlessly over nothing. Again.

But Andrew truly could be in trouble, and if Jonathan didn’t help him, he would be failing at a resolution he’d made not twenty-four hours ago. Yet another failure to tack onto the growing list.

Jonathan was halfway through dialing Andrew’s pager when he paused again.

If Andrew didn’t call him back, what _would_ he do, anyway? There were plenty of reasons Andrew might not answer his page, any number of which were more innocuous than needing his big brother to come to his rescue. And what could Jonathan even do? He didn’t know where Andrew was, and if Jonathan could do anything to really hold off testosterone-jacked bullies, his own high school experience would have been much more enjoyable.

But to do nothing at all . . .

Jonathan slammed down the receiver and paced the room, indecisive.

In the five minutes since he’d left his desk, the house had become noticeably darker, the colors dulled and muted as the sunlight waned. Jonathan screwed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath. Andrew wasn’t some helpless child who couldn’t walk himself home after dark – he was a high school _sophomore_ , for goodness’ sake – but there were enough dangers in Sunnydale to make Jonathan tense. Andrew might not be an idiot, but if he wasn’t fully alert, well . . . Jonathan himself had almost gotten himself killed going to a simple house party just last year.

Jonathan crossed back over to the phone, picked it up . . . and promptly set it back down.  

Surely, he was overreacting. Five o’clock only meant that Andrew was about two hours late. Not that there wasn’t a lot that could happen in just two hours.

Four more times, Jonathan picked up the phone. Four more times, he hung up without dialing.

He was fidgeting with the oversized cuffs of his sleeves, pulling them up and over his hands, and using his teeth to tug absently at the corners of the fabric. He turned on his heel for the fifth time, making to stride away from the phone – when, _finally,_ there was a jingle of keys, and Jonathan heard the front door swing open.

His head shot up, and the fabric of his sleeve fell from his mouth. “Andrew?” he called.

“Yeah?”

Relief rushed through him like iced water, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He took a moment to let out a slow breath, trying to not let his emotions show on his face. Then, he stepped around the corner into the entrance hall.

“You’re late,” he said accusingly.

Andrew had crouched down to pull off his shoes, and when Jonathan spoke, he glanced up with a scowl. The bruise was still dark on his cheek, but there didn’t appear to be any new injuries.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I had detention.”

Jonathan blinked. When his mind had been churning out scenarios to explain Andrew’s tardiness, he’d never even considered _detention_ as a possibility. Andrew never got detention. “ . . . Seriously?”

Andrew nodded, but did not offer any further explanation. He pulled off his second shoe and straightened, scooping up his bag again. He made to pass Jonathan in the hall, but Jonathan crossed his arms and followed him doggedly to the kitchen.

“Why’d you have detention?”

Andrew pointedly ignored him, instead setting a carton of lemonade and a juice glass on the kitchen counter.

Jonathan stepped forward and leaned up against the counter, directly in Andrew’s line of sight. “What’d you do?” he pressed.

This time, Andrew glowered, but shrugged. “Skipped class. No big deal.”

But that just made Jonathan’s frown deepen. “You skipped class? Why?”  

Andrew poured himself a glass of lemonade and said nothing.

“Andrew.”

At that, he shot Jonathan a furious scowl. “What is _with_ you today?” he snapped. “Seriously, not your beeswax!”

“It is my beeswax!” Jonathan retorted. “C’mon, I won’t tell Mom and Dad, but you were late, and – and it’s almost _dark_!”

On the last word, the worry crept back into his voice, and his pitch rose to an anxious whine. Embarrassed, Jonathan clenched his jaw shut and dropped his eyes to the kitchen tiles.

Maybe it was the concern – or, more likely, maybe it was just the promise not to tell their parents – but Andrew’s expression relaxed.

“I had to finish that paper for eighth period, remember?” he muttered finally.

“Wait – you still had to do that?” Jonathan said, startled. “Even though you told Mrs. Krabbits?”

“You saw her?”

“Yeah, she sent those guys to class when I was in the library.”

“Oh . . . well, yeah, all I said was that I thought they were causing trouble.” Andrew shrugged, one finger restlessly rubbing against the side of his glass. “She doesn’t like them much, so she believed me.”

“And you still wrote the paper.”

“I wasn’t _going_ to!” Andrew replied quickly, looking affronted, as if Jonathan had accused him of some great cowardice. “But, uh . . . Kyle’s on the lacrosse team. The team found me at lunch. They, uh, apparently didn’t like the idea of Kyle leaving the team for failing English.”

“Did they hurt you?” Jonathan demanded. He hadn’t seen any new injuries on Andrew, but . . . his eyes lingered on Andrew’s side, remembering all the hidden bruises he’d collected himself over the years.

But Andrew shook his head. “No,” he admitted, his tone low. He sounded embarrassed – ashamed he hadn’t put up more of a fight.

“ _Good_ ,” Jonathan said vehemently.

Andrew glanced up then, and, after a moment, flashed Jonathan a small smile.

“So, uh . . . did you get everything in okay?”

“Yeah,” Andrew replied. “I, uh, gave it to Kyle just before his class. And I don’t think my other teachers are too mad at me. I mean, Dr. Clark hates me, but that’s not about missing Bio.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Still, I think he’s the one who wrote me up for detention.”

Jonathan nodded, but there was a simmering heat deep in his belly. Andrew had been pushed around and forced into doing someone else’s assignment. He sported bruises on his face and back – and probably elsewhere – for his defiance, and when he finally caved to protect himself, he was punished by the very authority figures that were meant to look out for him. Sure, maybe the teachers hadn’t known, but the injustice of everything still made a flush of anger rise in Jonathan’s cheeks.

And suddenly, he hated himself for tossing the book aside so quickly.

He hadn’t stolen that book to make him feel better about himself. He’d taken it because it was all he could do to help protect Andrew – and yet, the moment magic didn’t instantly do his bidding, he’d shoved it all away, unwilling to face his own weakness. He hardly even _tried_.

But if no one tried, the next two years of Andrew’s high school career would be just like this – painful, lonely, and unfair. It could even get worse, Jonathan reminded himself, remembering Andrew’s flinch from earlier that morning.

And he’d tossed the damn book away.  

Jonathan shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t meet Andrew’s eyes – although Andrew had no idea about the magic book yet, Jonathan still felt the sickening weight of failure settle in his chest every time he looked at him.

“Well, uh . . . there’s still one more slice of pie if you want it,” he said finally. “I have some more work to do.”

“Okay,” Andrew replied.

Jonathan turned and left the kitchen. Once out of Andrew’s line of sight, he rushed up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he fished the book of magic off the pile of discarded college pamphlets. This time, he sat down at his desk and opened the book properly to the first chapter.

One week training course. Considering the alternative – Andrew suffering the same years of abuse at the hands of jocked up classmates that Jonathan had – a week of practice really wasn’t that much to ask.

The first days’ exercise was headed with a thick paragraph:

_Magic exists throughout our world, intricately linked with the life force of not just ourselves, but that of the animals and plants around us, and even the Earth itself. The practice of magic involves the understanding of all these forces; in the use of white magic, you will call on them all, and nurture them. Even when you use spells to defend yourself, you will be encouraging the growth of life – white magic, which is far more sustainable and healthy than its black brother, is based on the careful manipulation and synergy of the energies of the world . . ._

Jonathan tugged out his calculus notebook and flipped open the back cover to a blank page. With one finger, he followed the lines of the introduction in the magic guide, and with his other hand, he scribbled detailed notes.

He hunched over his desk, jaw set. Each time he turned a page in the book, he’d pull out a highlighter and mark the notes he’d taken in his notebook; he hadn’t focused so hard on a book since his final exams at the end of junior year. The sky outside went from dark purple, to indigo, to black, and Jonathan remained singularly focused on the stolen book, reading by the lamplight.

By the time he finished studying the theory for day one, his head felt tight and stuffy. But it was a sense of something like confidence that Jonathan finally turned the page to the first exercise.

_“It is recommended that the first-time magic user practice the following meditation exercise for a minimum of one hour. You may not find yourself able to touch the magic within you after the first attempt, but in that case, I suggest only that you continue to practice this meditation for at least one hour a day. Energy will come to you, once you have opened your spirit to the forces of the Earth. For some, that will be soon. For others, that will take time. Have patience.”_

Well, Jonathan would meditate every day for the next month if he had to.


	3. November 20, 1998

Inhale.

One . . . two . . . three.

Exhale.

Inhale . . .

Three days had passed since Jonathan had first found the book. He had not yet touched that nexus of power within himself, but Rivers assured him that was perfectly normal.

“ _The immediacy of our modern society cuts us off from the true forces that govern our world,”_ read the first paragraph on page four. _“The Earth cares not for our minutes or seconds – the nature of time is not so structured. But it is of no consequence. We are all born of the energies of the Earth, and we are all capable, with time and devotion, of once again touching the life of our world.”_

Exhale.

Jonathan had continued in the theory studies outlined for each day. He now knew the five Chinese elements and their respective forces; he’d read about the chakras, and the difference between the life of a rabbit and the life of a stone. It was only a cursory background, of course – Rivers continually reminded him that the true study of magic would involve constant theory study. But he’d learned everything Rivers had laid out on the pages for him so far, and all the words filled up in his head, clamoring together until his temple began to ache.

Meditation, of course, quieted those words. When he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, the new theories and philosophies softened and settled, wrapping over his mind like a blanket.

Inhale.

On the seventh breath, Jonathan reached deep inside himself. Had he been considering it, he would have expected to feel, yet again, absolutely nothing. But Jonathan did not think. He breathed, slow and deep, the meditation exercise a second nature to him.

And perhaps that was why, this time, when his lungs filled to capacity, there was a moment’s lull – and then, pure, unmistakable energy rushed through him.

Jonathan gasped, and his eyes flew open. Heat was rushing through his limbs – Jonathan held out his hands before him, watching them tremble as wave after wave of energy coursed through his body. He wasn’t summoning the forces; he wasn’t controlling them. He was a lightning rod, and the energy of the Earth – of the wood and stone that built his house, of the air of his bedroom, of the metal nails in his chair – flowed through him, converging and intertwining. There was a rustle to Jonathan’s right, and he turned to see his potted dracaena tossing as if in a strong wind.

For another heartbeat, he held on, awash in the overwhelming sensation. Then, finally, he exhaled, and the energy drained from him.

Jonathan climbed shakily to his feet. A small, stunned smile was tugging at the corner of his lips. He’d done it – he’d reached the magic within himself, had opened himself to the energies around him, and the Earth had responded. He had _succeeded_.

When Andrew called him down to dinner, an hour later, the grin still hadn’t quite faded from his face.


	4. November 21, 1998

 “Jon-a- _thaaan_ ,” came the drawn out whine from outside his door. “What are you doing?”

Jonathan sighed and turned a page in the magic book. “Go away, Andrew.” The next exercise in the book was a very simple channeling that was supposed to warm a chosen object. It sounded easier than his original ‘rock skin’ spell (Jonathan felt slightly chagrined that the practice course was full of the exact kind of magic he’d needed for a first spell, but by skipping over the first chapter, he’d missed them all), and he was eager to try it after yesterday’s breathtaking introduction to the sensation of magic, but he wanted to get today’s theory finished first.

“But it’s _Saturday_! X-Files today, remember?”

Jonathan sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “I’ll come out when I’m done. Go _away_.”

But, of course, Andrew ignored him. The doorknob jiggled, and Jonathan had only enough time to throw an arm over the pages of his book before the door swung open.

“ _Andrew!_ ” Jonathan snapped. “What have I told you about coming into my room?”

“The door wasn’t locked. Besides, Dad said I was supposed to tell you to get your stuff out of the dryer.”

“You could have done that from _outside_.”

Andrew pretended not to hear. He peered over Jonathan’s shoulder and scowled at the book pinned under his forearm.

“Have you been studying all day?” he asked. “It’s the weekend, and you’re a senior!”

At that, Jonathan hesitated. Obviously, he hadn’t truly intended to keep the book and its lessons a secret from Andrew. But he’d wanted to keep things to himself for at least a little while. He’d thought he would reveal his work on magic when he had more to show for his efforts, when he had a good half-dozen decent spells or so under his belt.

But now, with Andrew hanging around in his room, uninvited, and glaring suspiciously at the book under Jonathan’s arm, he wondered if that was really a feasible plan. This was _Andrew_ , after all.

And so, with a sigh, Jonathan pulled his arm back from the pages of the book. “I’m studying magic,” he admitted.

“Wait – _seriously_?”

“Yeah, look.” He pushed the book over to Andrew.

“ _Whoa_.” Andrew’s eyes had gone wide and round, and he picked up the book with a stunned reverence. “Where’d you get this?”

“Snuck it out of the library.”

Andrew turned the book onto its side and read out the spine: “Protective Magic for the Raw Beginner.”

“Yeah. I . . . I, uh, thought we could use it to avoid people like Kyle.”

Andrew blinked once, and then a small, slightly mischievous smile flitted across his face. “Does it actually work?” he asked, now carefully thumbing through the pages.

Jonathan nodded. “ _Totally_. I mean, I’m not very far in it yet, but I definitely made something happen yesterday.”

“Seriously?” Andrew glanced up, enthused. He shoved the book back into Jonathan’s hands, a bright grin spreading from ear to ear. “Show me!”

“Well, as I said, I’m not very far in it yet . . . “

“C’mon, do a spell! Do it, do it!”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute to finish the reading.”

Andrew nodded fervently, and it was with an unusual silence that he sat back on Jonathan’s bed and let him work. That wasn’t to say he sat still, of course – the sounds of rustling fabric and feet scuffing against wooden floor grated at the periphery of Jonathan’s attention as he skimmed through the last few pages.

Finally, he turned back to the second exercise – the heating spell. As he glanced down at the page, he was pleased to note that the procedure seemed remarkably similar to the exercise he had done just the previous day. The only variation was that when he let the energy drain from his body, he was to give it a very slight nudge in a particular direction.

“Hey, Andrew.”

Immediately, Andrew perked up, and his legs, which had been kicking out restlessly at thin air, fell still.

“Here – catch.” He scooped up a small, green stress ball from the corner of his desk and tossed it toward the bed.

Andrew fumbled the ball slightly, but ultimately, he managed to hold it cupped in both hands. Curiously, he glanced up at Jonathan. “Huh?”

“Hold that.”

“ . . . What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” Jonathan turned his chair to face Andrew properly, and he pulled up his legs to cross them on his seat. His hands settled on his knees. Once he’d arranged himself into his meditation position, Jonathan let his eyes slide shut. His breathing was the first order of business.

Inhale.

One . . . two . . . three.

Exhale.

Inhale.

One . . . two---

“What’s going to happen?”

Jonathan let out a soft groan of frustration, and cracked open one eye to scowl at Andrew. “Will you be patient? This took almost an hour yesterday.” Plus three days previously, but Jonathan didn’t mention that.

Andrew’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t want to wait an _hour_!”

“Andrew. Shut. Up.”

Andrew glowered darkly, but apparently his curiosity to see a magic spell won out, because he fell silent and clutched the ball a little closer.

Jonathan closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. He desperately hoped this spell would work; he could feel Andrew’s eager gaze burning against him, and if couldn’t call upon that energy he’d found yesterday, or if he couldn’t direct in a way Andrew could sense, he thought the embarrassment might just kill him. Maybe he _should_ have waited a few more days before revealing his work to Andrew.

But then, he exhaled, and let the thoughts drain away.

Seven breaths. Reach. No energy greeted him on the first stretch, and so again – seven breaths. Reach.

Andrew had begun to fidget again, but Jonathan simply let the sounds of his movements pass through his consciousness. Andrew was full of life force, a new energy that had not been present in Jonathan’s room yesterday when he’d first pulled upon the forces of the Earth.  The consideration settled into a recess of his mind, and then again – seven breaths. Reach.

And this time, when he reached down, the Earth answered him. Energy welled up within him and spilled out through his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes. He heard the rustle of his potted dracaena as the leaves tossed in the flow of energy, and apparently Andrew had noticed it as well – he sucked in a sudden breath, and Jonathan could actually _feel_ his exhilaration spike.

Jonathan let his eyes flutter open. The energy rushing through him made him feel slightly light headed, but somehow, the feeling wasn’t quite as overwhelming as it had been yesterday. Perhaps he was already getting used to the sensation of the energies swirling through him.

His eyes fell on the stress ball in Andrew’s hands, and all his concentration narrowed on that singular point. One hand came up slightly, steadying himself.

Heat – the kinetic energy of the molecules that made up a substance – was one of the simplest, most fundamental forms of energy a wizard could work with. He wasn’t trying to push the energy into the visible wavelengths; he wasn’t trying to force the molecules to move in any particular direction. All he had to do was coax the energy coursing within him to flow through that small, plastic ball.

Jonathan exhaled, and as the energy began to leave him, he _pushed_ , focusing his every thought on the stress ball.

Immediately, Andrew gasped and dropped the ball. He scrambled backwards, eyes wide.

“It got hot!”

Jonathan let the rest of the energy rush directly back into the ground.

The stress ball lay innocently on the wooden floorboards. When the last of the forces had drained from him, Jonathan crossed over to the ball and scooped it up – but the plastic had already gone cold, the energy having only flowed through it momentarily in the rush to return to the Earth.

“Did it burn you?” Jonathan asked quickly. He hadn’t thought the ball would get that hot, but . . . then again, he hadn’t exactly done this spell before.

But Andrew shook his head. Now that the shock was wearing off, the grin had returned to his face, and he bounced off the bed. “You did that? That was so _cool_!”

“Uh, yeah – thanks.” Awkwardly, Jonathan tugged at the hem of his sleeve. At the same time, he couldn’t help the small, pleased smile that crossed his lips. He’d done his second spell, and now Andrew was staring at him with an amazed, wide-eyed reverence that Jonathan hadn’t seen since they were kids.

“You’re like a _warlock_ now,” Andrew said, awestruck.

“Wizard,” Jonathan corrected.

“Huh?”

“Warlocks do dark magic,” Jonathan told him, thinking back to his theory studies from two days ago. “I do white magic, so that’s ‘wizard’.”

Andrew nodded wisely. “So, you’re Gandalf, not Saruman.”

“Well – kind of,” he agreed. “But I’m not _nearly_ anywhere as strong as either of them yet.”

“ _Duh_. Training. There’s a reason you always get a training montage in movies.” Andrew stepped over to the desk and picked up the book again. He flipped through the pages eagerly, quietly mouthing headings of spells to himself: “ . . . selective invisibility . . . energy barrier . . . ward against evil . . .”

Finally, he looked back up, his eyes shining. “Can you teach me?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said immediately. “I mean, I’m _really_ not that much further than you are right now but—”

“Then we’ll train together!”

Jonathan fixed Andrew with a firm gaze. “It’s gonna be a lot of studying and meditation, not just spells, you know.”

“But when I do all that, no one’s gonna bother me anymore!” Andrew’s eyes blazed. “I’ll do the studying, and then anyone could give me trouble, and I will just . . . defensive spell them away.” He made a vague, wiggly gesture with his hands.

After a moment, Jonathan nodded – a short, firm movement that acknowledged the defiance against the world in Andrew’s expression. “Yeah, exactly.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, uh. X-Files,” Andrew said finally. “We’ll watch the new episode, and _then_ we start training.”  


	5. December 26, 1998

A lively fire crackled in the fireplace of the Levinson family living room, the mantle above decorated with candles, holiday cards, and a branch of holly. The Christmas tree on the other side of the room glimmered with lights and ornaments, many of which were adorned with the messy scrawl of childhood handwriting. Under the boughs of the tree lay small stacks of freshly unwrapped gifts from the previous day, and crumpled giftwrap and tissue paper still littered the floor.

In the large, plush armchair by the side of the fire, Jonathan had curled up in his pajamas, his head propped up on a velvet throw pillow. He held a small card envelope in one hand in front of him; it was an off-white cream color, made of a sturdy, quality paper. He turned the envelope over, considering the neat cursive on the back that spelled out his name.

The card had appeared in his locker on the last day of school before winter break. When he’d opened his locker after the last period of the day, he’d found it lying on the books stacked at the floor, apparently having been pushed through one of the slits on the top. Since then, Jonathan had read the card over almost a hundred times.

Now, he pulled the card out again.

It was a homemade card, but so carefully made that it almost looked to come from a shop. The front depicted a pair of glittery doves on a white background, carrying a bough of holly between the two of them. On the inside, in the same neat cursive that addressed the envelope, the card read:

> “ _Dear Jonathan,_
> 
> _Happy Holidays! I hope you and your family have a warm, fun break. See you next year!_
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Jessica Albright.”_

It was a simple greeting, but it still made a small smile flit across Jonathan’s face. He was so rarely remembered that sometimes he felt as if he were nothing more than a shadow in his high school class. And yet, Jessica had noticed him enough to give him a _card_.

“What’s that?”

At the sound of Andrew’s voice, Jonathan started and stuffed the card under his leg.

“N-nothing. Go away, Andrew.”

“This is the family room,” Andrew pointed out. “And it’s not nothing. I _saw_ it.”

“I said it’s nothing!” Jonathan snapped back.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t want Andrew to see the card; he was certain that Jessica had given similar greetings to everyone in her classes, and it wasn’t as if there was anything particularly private written inside. This was nothing more personal than the cards on the mantle from their parents’ coworkers – but still, Jonathan felt the peculiar desire to keep this particular card to himself.

Andrew had just opened his mouth to argue some more, and so quickly, Jonathan dropped his gaze to a wad of green giftwrap on the ground between them. He sucked in a deep breath and opened his mind up to the energy of the Earth.

As the giftwrap rose slowly into the air, Andrew broke off, his eyes gleaming. “ _Ooh_.”

Jonathan caught his gaze and quirked a small smile. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to distract Andrew from almost anything, it was magic.

In the month that had passed since Jonathan had first stolen _Protective Spells for the Raw Beginner_ , Andrew and Jonathan had begun practicing almost daily. They’d studied dozens of spells, from intricate defensive wardings to the simple practice levitation charm that Jonathan was using now. It’d been weeks since Andrew had come home with any new bruises, and as far as Jonathan could tell, Andrew’s secret was still well guarded. Even Jonathan himself hadn’t been as desperate for the winter break as usual this year; school was much more tolerable when punches felt like being hit with feather pillows.

But even with the bullies held at bay, Andrew and Jonathan continued studying, almost obsessively. Magic was exciting, and challenging, and there was a rush to learning new spells that had nothing to do with the defense magic could afford them.

Jonathan twitched two fingers in the direction of the fireplace, and, obediently, the wad of paper floated lazily through the air and deposited itself directly into the flames. The fire surged a pretty blue-green as the dyes burned.

Andrew grinned. “I bet I can do farther.”  

“You think?”

In answer, Andrew fixed his gaze on a piece of tissue paper under the tree at the far side of the room, and stuck one arm straight out ahead of him to help him channel. He breathed.

The tissue paper lifted up three inches off the ground. Andrew let it hover there for a moment, and then, with a sharp exhale, he sent it shooting, hard and fast, into the fire.

As the flames roared higher, Andrew shot Jonathan a proud smirk.

In response, Jonathan sat pointedly on his hands and turned his focus to another crumpled piece of giftwrap pushed all the way up against the opposite wall.

“You can’t reach that far,” Andrew protested. “Not without a channeling aid!”

“Want a bet?”

But Andrew just scowled.

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he focused his energy on the small bit of paper. With his mind, he reached out and gave it a firm tug – the paper trembled, but otherwise stayed put.

For a moment, Andrew looked triumphant. But then, Jonathan closed his eyes and sucked in another slow, deep breath, concentrating on the forces swirling around him.

There was an elastic kind of energy in the pine floorboards – not as strong as it would be in living wood, but nevertheless present. Jonathan reached out to this force, and for a second, he just breathed, focusing on the feel of wood’s energy. Then, very gently, he pulled.

The energy of the wood bowed under Jonathan’s guidance, warping slightly from its natural course. When he let go, it sprang back like a bowstring, and the force of the shift pushed up against the paper, repelling it from the floorboards. Jonathan’s concentration snatched at the paper and urged it upwards – this time, the paper rose easily into the air.

Andrew pouted.

“Ah, look – we got a late package from your Aunt Tricia.”

Their mother had just walked into the living room, her eyes focused on the large pile of mail in her hands.

Hastily, Jonathan released the wad of wrapping paper, and it fell silently to the ground.

Their mother didn’t seem to notice the movement; she was busy tugging at the clasp of the padded envelope on the top of her stack of mail.

“I hope the olive oil set we sent her arrived on time,” she muttered anxiously, mostly to herself. “The company _did_ promise, but she hasn’t said anything. I’ll call her . . . oh, here, boys, these are for you.”

She had managed to pull open the package, and extracted two small card envelopes from inside. She handed one each to Andrew and Jonathan.

“Is there anything else in the mail for me?” Jonathan asked, as he took the gift.

“Sorry, honey, no,” his mother replied. She glanced up from the stack of mail and offered him a small smile. “But it’s still a little early to hear back from colleges, isn’t it?”

Jonathan just shrugged, and said nothing.

Their mother looked over to Andrew. “Is your dad in the kitchen still?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “We just put the quiche in the oven.”

Their mother nodded, and then turned back to the door, now thumbing through the rest of the mail.

Once she’d gone, Jonathan slit open the top of his envelope with a thumb and pulled out a small plastic card. “Gift certificate again,” he stated. “Borders this year.”

Andrew opened his envelope; he had an identical card. He frowned at it slightly, considering. “ . . . Do you think the Borders in Sunnydale sells books on magic?”

“ . . . You know, I’d never considered it,” Jonathan admitted. “Maybe. Worth a shot, I suppose. I mean, we still haven’t gotten any more books out of the library.”

Not for lack of trying, of course. In the last week of school before break, he and Andrew had taken turns trying to sneak books on magic out under Mr. Giles’ nose, but it seemed that Mr. Giles had noticed the missing protective spell guide and had doubled his watchfulness over any student that wandered into his library. So far, they had yet to so much as touch the spine of another spellbook.  

But both Jonathan and Andrew were growing restless. While they still had enough spells from Rivers to keep them busy for about another month, it had become clear that the truncated theory provided only the bare minimum to allow them to work a spell – not enough for true understanding or innovation.

“Well, there _are_ those online spells,” Andrew said slowly. “That one to make actualpet rocks looked really cool.”

But Jonathan wrinkled his nose. “You _know_ what they say about online spells in the Wicca forum.”

“You mean, what tara_m says about them. Everyone else is fine with it.”

“Yeah, but she has more of a clue about anything than anyone else does! If she says the shortcuts people write in the spells they post online are dangerous, I’m going to listen. Besides—“ Jonathan paused, and he took on a slightly smug expression. “I looked at that spell. It’s _dark_ magic; the rock is animated because it’s sucking life force out of something else. And it’s not even anchored, so it can be taking energy from anything, like kittens or babies.”

Andrew visibly deflated. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t notice.”

Jonathan lifted his eyebrows and shot Andrew a contemptuous look. “You _know_ what Rivers says: the difference between dark magic and white magic—“

“—is a little consideration,” Andrew finished. “I _know_ , okay? You barely started magic three days before me. You’re not better than me.”

“Well, if you’re going to start doing dark spells you find off the internet . . .”

“Dude, I _get it,_ already! No internet spells – so, like, give it a rest, okay?” Andrew huffed and crossed his arms. With a slight scowl, he glanced back down at the gift card in his hands. “I just really hope Borders sells magic books.”

* * *

As it turned out, Borders _did_ sell magic books.

They weren’t exactly laid out in the front display, but when Andrew and Jonathan had been lurking uncertainly by the books on neo-paganism for about twenty minutes, a sales associate wandered her way over to ask if there was anything she could help them find. While Jonathan hesitated, Andrew had said quite frankly: “we need spellbooks” – and, without missing a beat, the associate had smiled and led them to a dusty back room.

The furthest shelf in that back room was stacked high with books that had the same kind of titles as the books in Giles’ library, but with crisper, whiter pages and artfully designed covers. There were field guides to magical herbs, shiny hardcovers detailing weather spells, entire books dedicated to magical practices of the Ainu people of Japan, and Andrew even found a magical cookbook to longingly run his fingers along.

And there, up on the top shelf far above Jonathan’s reach, rested an enormous black tome which looked to be at least a thousand pages long. Silver lettering was stamped down its thick spine, in between an intricate, spiraling design: _The Complete Guide to Practical Magic_. The moment he spotted it, Jonathan’s heart leapt.

“Andrew – look,” he said, his eyes fixed on the book.

“Hmm?” Andrew had pulled out the cookbook, and was gazing lustfully at the glossy dust jacket.

Sharply, Jonathan tugged at his sleeve. “I said _look_.”

This time, Andrew looked up and shot Jonathan a cross glare. “Wha _-at_?” he snapped. “I’m reading this one. I – oh.” He broke off, his eyes lighting upon the book Jonathan was pointing at. “ _Ooh_. It’s beautiful.”

“That’s what I was trying to say.”

“Do you want that one?” the sales associate asked.

Enthusiastically, both Jonathan and Andrew nodded.

The sales association disappeared for a moment, and when she returned, she was pulling a ladder behind her. She propped the ladder up against the shelf and quickly scaled up the steps. Once she’d retrieved the book, she reached down to hand it off to Jonathan. He outstretched a hand to take it, but before his fingers could brush the cover, Andrew sharply elbowed him out of the way and took the book instead.

“Hey!” Jonathan protested. “I saw it first!”

But Andrew ignored him. He was staring in obvious awe at the book, and, awkwardly balancing it on one arm, he began to flip through the pages.

“ _Whoa_ , this is awesome,” he murmured reverently. “Dude, look – transportation, home repair, animal communication . . . there are even sword cleaning spells! Not that we let our replica swords get dirty, but if we _did_ . . .” He trailed off, and flipped the book over to glance at the barcode on the back. He winced. “Man, it’s expensive, though.”

Jonathan peered around Andrew’s arm to get a look. “Oh, yeah . . . well, if we pool our gift cards, it’d only be another twenty dollars out of pocket, each.”

“One book for _both_ of us? We can’t get one each of our own?”

“Do you think there’s another book here half as good?” Jonathan pointed out. “We can share. I mean, we still have the protective magic guide, so we could both have a book, and then swap off at the end of each day.”

Andrew made a show of stroking his chin as he considered. “Hmm. You offer a fair proposition. I’ll get the new book first, and then you can have it tomorrow.”

“Wait, why do you get it first—?“

“Because my name starts with ‘A’, and yours starts with ‘J’. Alphabetical order – it’s only fair.”

“And that’s as stupid an excuse as it was the other hundred thousand times you’ve tried to use it over the past fifteen years.”

“Besides,” Andrew continued, undeterred. “Weren’t you working on that invisibility spell in the protective magic guide? This way you get to finish that first.”    

At that, Jonathan crossed his arms and let out a huff. “Fine. You have a point. But tomorrow, I get it _all day_. No matter whether or not you were done with your chapter.”

“Dude, I’m a man of honor. Do I _ever_ break our agreements?”

“Yes. You do. A lot.”

Andrew shot him a dark scowl.


	6. January 12, 1999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some discussion of suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

Two weeks later, Jonathan lay listlessly on the couch, his eyes half shut as he just breathed, long and slow. He figured he should probably drag himself to his feet sometime soon – he had been home for almost two hours, and he had that lab report for physics due tomorrow. But a bone-weary exhaustion clung to every one of his limbs, as heavy as lead. At that moment, Jonathan thought he probably wouldn’t have been able to pull himself off the couch even if a demon had burst into the room and started threatening him to move on pain of death.

He knew he shouldn’t have sustained that invisibility spell so long. Redirecting so much energy from within himself was more draining than any other spell he knew. But he hadn’t had a choice – the swim team had cornered him in the locker room, leaving boys guarding every possible exit. He’d had no desire to find what kind of sadistic torture the team could come up with using the showers and toilets if they found him, and so, just as the team captain rounded the corner to the bed of lockers where Jonathan was cowering, he sucked in a deep breath and popped out of sight.

And it would have worked fine, too, if the team hadn’t possessed the longest attention span of any gang of teenage jocks he’d ever seen. When they couldn’t find him at first, the whole team had lingered for almost a half hour, checking and double-checking almost every locker in the room. By the time they’d finally left, mumbling that he must have somehow slipped past one of the sentries, Jonathan was struggling to breathe. He’d learned the spell for use in short intervals only – thirty seconds, a minute, five minutes at most if absolutely necessary. Never a half hour.

When the door swung shut, Jonathan fell to all fours, the magic _finally_ draining from him. Blindly, he fumbled for his bag and dragged out his inhaler. He took a few deep puffs, and for the next several long minutes, he had just crouched there, heaving shuddering breaths and fighting to stay conscious. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d eventually managed to drag himself to his feet and stumble all the way back to his house.

Now, as he stared up at the white ceiling, he found he felt no victory at the escape. Sure, the swim team hadn’t gotten their hands on him, but did it really matter? Whether by their fists or his own defensive spells, the result was the same: he was lying uselessly on the living room couch, barely able to move, feeling shaky as the adrenaline drained from his system. And his escape this time would do nothing to prevent the team from coming at him again tomorrow, or the day after that. Magic was supposed to have made things better, but sometimes he wished he could just make everything _stop_.

Jonathan closed his eyes and swallowed hard. All he wanted was a little bit of rest.

Rapid footsteps announced Andrew’s entry into the living room, but Jonathan didn’t lift his head to look. Maybe if he lay still enough, Andrew would just leave him alone.  

But, of course, no such luck.

“Jonathan, where’s the big book?”

Jonathan let out a soft groan, and his eyes fluttered open. Weakly, he scowled at Andrew. “It’s my turn today.”

“Yeah, but you’re not using it right now, are you? So I wanna use it.”

“Still my turn. You get it tomorrow.”

Andrew’s lips pursed. “You’re not being _fair_. C’mon, you won’t even notice it’s gone! I’ll give it back to you in an hour.”

“Nu-uh. Not happening.” Jonathan closed his eyes again. On some level, he knew it really wouldn’t matter if he let Andrew borrow the book; he was in no state to study magic tonight anyway. But his exhaustion had left him irritable, and Andrew’s nagging didn’t exactly lend to charitable thoughts.

Andrew let out an angry huff, but, thankfully, Jonathan heard him turn on his heel and stride back out of the room.

As quiet descended on the room again, Jonathan let out a slow breath. He still had that lab report, but perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to take a short nap . . . a few minutes, just enough to gather up his strength again.

But just as he began to drift off to sleep, Andrew returned.

“Jonathan, where did you put the book?”

This time, when Jonathan opened his eyes, he imagined setting Andrew’s hair on fire with the force of his glare alone. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he might have even considered ignoring their strict ‘no black magic’ rule just this once. Nothing dangerous, of course – maybe an acne hex. That would be lesson enough.

“I _told_ you you’re not getting it today,” he snapped. “So go away.”

“You’re being annoying,” Andrew retorted. “I can’t find it – c’mon, just tell me!”

“’Can’t find it’ . . . ? Wait, did you just search _my room_?”

Andrew sidestepped the question. “You’re just being stubborn and dumb. There’s no reason I shouldn’t use the book when you’re not! So, where’d you hide it?”

“You’re not getting the damn book! So, stop asking!” Jonathan grabbed a velvet throw pillow and pulled it over his head. “And stay out of my room!” he finished, voice muffled.

He actually hadn’t tried to hide the book from Andrew, but if Andrew hadn’t thought to just check under Jonathan’s bed, Jonathan wasn’t going to give him any pointers.

“You’re so _stupid_!” came Andrew’s angry reply, but Jonathan ignored him. A moment later, Andrew stomped from the room.

Jonathan let the hand holding the pillow to his head fall over the side of the couch, leaving the pillow balanced on his cheek. The darkness under the velvet was soothing. He sighed. Five minutes passed in silence.

Then, an odd sensation blossomed in the hand hanging over the side of the couch.

It was a strange, warm tingling that made his fingers twitch; at first, he thought his hand must be falling asleep. But barely had he flexed his fingers when the sensation suddenly flared, racing up his arm and deep into his chest. The tingling rushed through his body, making him gasp.

Even before anxiety had the chance to spike in his mind, the feeling vanished, as suddenly as it’d come. Jonathan was left lying there, mildly puzzled, but otherwise feeling the same as before.

He lifted his hand to his face and made a fist. It seemed perfectly normal. Perhaps the tingling had just been some delayed aftereffect of holding the indivisibility spell so long. He frowned, and turned his hand over.

Just then, Andrew’s footsteps _yet again_ entered the living room.

This time, Jonathan shoved himself up on his elbows, prepared to snap at Andrew to get out and let him rest already – didn’t he have anything better to do than bug Jonathan constantly?

But when their gazes locked, Jonathan was suddenly struck by the inexplicable desire to tell Andrew _everything_.

A friendly smile spread across his lips. Whatever had he been thinking, trying to send Andrew away? Obviously, Andrew was the most trustworthy person in the world. Jonathan was happy to have him around. Whatever Andrew wanted to know, Jonathan would tell him.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully.

Andrew was looking a little nervous. Dimly, Jonathan wondered why. Perhaps there was some information Jonathan could give him to make him feel better. He would tell Andrew anything, of course.

“Hi,” Andrew replied. “Um . . . okay. Jonathan, where’s the magic book?”

“Under my bed,” Jonathan answered promptly.

Andrew’s expression brightened. “It worked! You actually told me!”

“Of course I did. I trust you. I’ll tell you anything.”

“Anything, huh?” Andrew said, a mischievous smile flitting about his lips. “ So . . . if I asked you the most embarrassing thing that happened to you . . .?”

Jonathan frowned slightly. He hated so much as thinking about _those_ incidents, let alone talking about them. But Andrew wanted to know, and so of course he would tell him. He could tell Andrew anything. He was lucky to have such a trustworthy brother. “I would tell you about the time that Dodd McAlvy tried to drown me in ice water when I tried out for the swim team, and Buffy Summers had to save me,” he said finally.  

The grin froze on Andrew’s face. “Wait, seriously? _Drown_ you?”

“Well, I don’t know how far he would have gone, but I felt like I was going to die. I couldn’t breathe, and the team was all laughing at me, and I couldn’t do anything.”

“Oh. Uh . . . “

“Sometimes, I wish he _had_ killed me.”   

“ . . . _What_?” Andrew squeaked.

Jonathan shrugged. “It would be so much easier. Everyone ridicules me and makes fun of me and tries to hurt me, and they never stop, and no one else ever seems to care. If I was dead, though, _everything_ would stop. People would finally notice.”

“You don’t actually mean that, though, right?” Andrew said quickly. “I mean, it’s just – just a figure of speech. Right?”

“No, I mean it. I’ve thought about doing it myself, too.”

“Oh, god.” Andrew had gone pale. “Oh, god. Oh, god. Ohgod, ohgod _ohgod_.”

Jonathan watched him silently, awaiting further questions.

“I just . . . uh, I’ll be right back, okay?” Andrew said finally. “Just – just stay here.”

“Okay,” Jonathan answered.

Andrew rushed from the room, and Jonathan could hear him race up the stairs down the hallway.

He leaned up against the armrest of the couch and let out a soft sigh. As he moved, he noted pleasantly that his limbs didn’t feel quite as leaden as they had previously; perhaps the two-hour rest on the couch had done some good. He wondered if Andrew would like to know that. But, he realized, he hadn’t even told Andrew about using the invisibility spell in the locker room yet. How foolish of him. Andrew was _so_ trustworthy.

He had just been considering making his way upstairs to tell Andrew all about the swim team, when the tingling in his fingers suddenly returned.

Just as before, the sensation rushed up his arm and spread through his entire body in a matter of seconds. But this time, the tingling wasn’t warm. It felt cold – like needles of ice pricking at every inch of skin. Jonathan let out a sharp hiss as the feeling spread through his body.

Thankfully, the sensation passed as quickly as the last one. Only a moment later, he was left lying flat on his back, panting hard and slightly shivering.

Jonathan swallowed. That was the second unexpected sensation in less than five minutes, and this most recent one was exponentially more uncomfortable than the last. He had no explanation for either of the waves of tingling. For all he knew, the episodes would continue, each one worse than the last.

He sat up, feeling anxiety twist in his gut. He held out his hands in front of him and clenched his fists.

Jonathan was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t even hear Andrew return the room.

“J-Jonathan?”

Jonathan glanced up. Andrew was standing at the doorframe, half-cowering on the other side of the wall. He didn’t seem to want to meet Jonathan’s gaze.

And this time, when Jonathan saw Andrew, there was no warm surge of unconditional trust. Their previous conversation rushed through his mind, and Jonathan’s eyes flew wide. He’d told Andrew everything. Things he’d sworn he’d never tell Andrew in a hundred years, things he’d sworn he’d never tell _anyone_ – Andrew had simply asked, and Jonathan had laid it all out in front of him without a second thought.  

“That was a _truth spell_ ,” he said, voice hoarse. “That tingling – you put a damn spell on me!”

Andrew flinched. “You just weren’t listening, and I wanted the book!”

“And how’d that go for you, huh?” Jonathan spat back. “Learn everything you wanted to know?”

“I-I broke the spell! It’s okay now!”

“Oh, yes, everything’s okay now – you just put a _spell on me_ to get a stupid book I was going to give you tomorrow anyway!”

“But I lifted it!” Andrew protested, his voice rising in pitch.

“Only because you got a little uncomfortable when you started finding out more than you bargained for!”

“No that’s—!“

“Just _shut up_!” Jonathan snapped. He shoved himself up from the couch and scrambled to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You wanted a damn book, so you freaking _mind controlled_ me! That’s dark side crap, Andrew!”

Andrew physically recoiled. “B-but it wasn’t dark magic!” he insisted. “It was a Persian truth spell, and in Zoroastrianism—!“

“I don’t care if angels themselves came down to hand you the spell! You still can’t just use magic to control me!”  

Andrew opened his mouth to reply, but Jonathan was done listening. He was shaking, and his eyes were burning, and he needed to get as far away from Andrew as possible, right now.

“I . . . I’m the one who taught you magic,” he choked out. “And _this_ is what you do with it. What you do to me. I hope you’re happy about what you learned.”

With that, he shoved by Andrew and rushed up the stairs.

“Jonathan—!“

Jonathan could hear Andrew race after him, but he didn’t look back, and when he reached his room, he pushed inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

Andrew skidded to a halt right outside the door.

“Jonathan, I’m sorry!”

“Go away!”

“But—!“

“What, are you worried that I’m going to _off_ myself now?” he snapped, vindictive fury icing his words. “Well, don’t worry – I’ll be sure to murder you first!”

There was a pause. For a moment, Jonathan dared hope that Andrew had been startled off.

But Andrew didn’t move, and another second later, his high-pitched whine came through the door: “Jonathan, _please_ open the door – I said I’m sorry!”

“ _Go away_ , Andrew! I’m not talking to you!” Jonathan threw himself down onto the bed and pulled a thick pillow over his head.

Insistently, Andrew knocked at the door. Through the material of the pillow, the sound was muffled, but it was enough to make Jonathan flinch. For a moment, he considered calling up a force field around his room. But he didn’t really want to touch any kind of magic right now. Instead, Jonathan just pulled a blanket over the pillow and pressed down hard, trying his best to shut out the world.

When Jonathan hadn’t replied for several minutes, Andrew finally tired of knocking. Jonathan pulled off the pillow and blanket; outside, he could Andrew moving down the hall in the direction of his own room. He let out a soft sigh of relief.

The energy he’d lost from the invisibility spell had begun to return, yet somehow, he felt more exhausted now than he had before. There was a cold emptiness in his chest. The incident with Dodd McAlvy and the dark thoughts the event had triggered were things he’d meant to bury deep within himself, never to see the light of day. Yet, Andrew had torn those secrets from him with a wave of his hand and an incantation – or whatever that damn Persian truth spell involved.  Jonathan had been powerless to stop him.

Jonathan rolled over. Magic had been meant to be a way for him to finally find some control – not another way for someone else to control _him_. Andrew had betrayed him, and no matter how much he apologized, Andrew couldn’t give back Jonathan’s secrets. He felt slightly nauseous.

Hours passed. Every so often, Andrew would come down the hall and stand outside Jonathan’s door for a few minutes. After the first hour, he stopped trying to talk through the door, but he continued to pace and pause, and sometimes give a half-hearted knock. Jonathan could almost feel Andrew’s anxiety radiating in waves through the wall.

Eventually, their parents arrived home, and when Jonathan was called down to dinner, he replied that he had a migraine and was trying to sleep it off. He didn’t open the door, and his parents left him alone.

The sky had long gone dark when Jonathan heard Andrew coming up the stairs from the kitchen. The footsteps paused outside Jonathan’s room, and he shot a tired glare at the door. If Andrew dared knock again, after Jonathan had dedicated so many hours to pointedly ignoring him . . .

But Andrew didn’t knock. He didn’t say anything. Jonathan heard something slide under the door, and then, without a word, Andrew turned and walked away again.

Jonathan waited for a few moments. When he was sure that Andrew was well and truly gone, he pushed himself up from the bed and walked over to the door.

There was a note on the floor. It was scribbled on a torn corner of lined notebook paper, written in untidy blue pen.

Jonathan picked it up.

 _Jonathan,_ the note read.

> _“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go all Saruman on you, but my ambition was too great and it corrupted my judgment. You’re right, I shouldn’t have done the truth spell. I gave in to the darkness._
> 
> _I will never cast a spell on you ever again, I promise. From now on, you will be the one guaranteed exemption to any magic I do._
> 
> _~ Andrew_
> 
> _P.S. Dad left a plate for you in the fridge.”_

Jonathan stared at the note, feeling something twist oddly in his belly. Andrew was promising him complete immunity from his power – of course, the promise did little  to assuage the cold sting of betrayal, but he savored the surge of vindication that that he felt at Andrew’s admission of guilt. Andrew was defensive and self-righteous at the best of times; for Andrew to earnestly apologize so soon was far more than Jonathan had hoped for.

And yet, the feeling of sick helplessness remained.

* * *

The knock at the door was hesitant and quiet, but nevertheless, it still made Andrew jump a good six inches into the air.

He choked down a yelp of surprise, and quickly straightened his shoulders in a show of nonchalance.

“Um, come in!”

The door swung open, and Jonathan stood in the entrance, one hand picking anxiously at his sleeve. In his other hand, he held the small scrap of paper that Andrew recognized as his note.

At the sight of his brother, Andrew scrambled to his feet. “J-Jonathan! Are you, um . .  are you . . .” Worry crinkled between his eyebrows as he trailed off, apparently not entirely sure how to finish his sentence.

“I’m fine, Andrew.”

Andrew looked somewhat doubtful, but he simply said: “So, you, uh, got my message?”  

“Yeah.” For a long moment, Jonathan didn’t meet Andrew’s eyes; he stared unblinkingly at the note in his hand, his grip firm enough to crinkle the paper.

“So . . . um. I’m sorry.”

Jonathan nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t say it was okay, but nor did he outright reject Andrew’s apology. Andrew figured that was a start.

There was a pause, in which Jonathan’s gaze, still avoiding Andrew’s, darted around the room. He shifted his weight, evidently struggling to gather his thoughts.

Andrew fidgeted with his fingers. “Er . . . so. Uh. I really mean it, you know. I didn’t mean to make you go through the whole Morpheus truth serum thing. I-I was tempted by the dark side. As I said, I won’t ever cast a spell on you again.”  

“That’s not good enough.”  

The rest of Andrew’s words seemed to slip from his mind. “ . . . Huh?”

“That’s not good enough,” Jonathan said again. He took a deep breath, and then, finally, lifted his gaze to meet Andrew’s for the first time since he’d set foot in the room. “How do I know you’ll keep your promise when you don’t even get why it was wrong? And it’s not just about me. We can’t go around using magic to make people do what we want them to. I . . . I can’t be your only exception.”

“W-what are you saying? Do you want me to give up magic?”

“What? No.” Jonathan shook his head sharply, as if startled by the idea. “No. It’s just . . . it’s like the Force. You know, magic is neutral, and you can use it for good or for bad. It doesn’t matter _who_ you’re using it on; it’s about how you’re using it.” He paused, and shrugged. “You say you’re sorry, but you just don’t get it.”

At that, Andrew scowled and crossed his arms. “I’m not _stupid_ , you know!”

“You certainly act like it!”

“I—!“ But, with an angry huff, he broke off. “Well, why don’t you just tell me what you mean?”

“I already told you! “ Jonathan snapped. “It’s about controlling people! You have this power, and you don’t even understand how you’re using it!”

“So, you _do_ want me to give up magic.”

“ _No_! Urgh.” Frustrated, Jonathan drew his hand across his face. “Seriously, just think of the Force. It’s a neutral power, so unless you want to be a _dark warlock_ you have to be careful that you’re using it for the right reasons.”

“Anakin thought he was using it for the right reasons,” Andrew pointed out.

“Yeah, but he broke the Jedi code to do it!”

“So . . . ,” Andrew said slowly. “You’re saying I should follow some kind of ‘Wizard’s code’?”

“Well . . .” Jonathan paused, considering. “Yeah, I suppose.”

After a moment, Andrew nodded. “That would actually be kinda cool. You know, earning honor as a wizard by following a set of principles . . .” He trailed off, and then frowned. “But, uh, _is_ there a Wizard’s code?”

“Uh, actually, I don’t know. I haven’t seen one.”

“Well, what if we wrote one ourselves?”

Jonathan blinked, and, after a moment, a kind of half smile quirked at his lips. “That’s not a bad idea actually.”

A tentatively pleased grin crossed Andrew’s face. “So . . . you’re not mad at me, anymore?”

But Jonathan snorted. “I didn’t say _that_.”

Andrew winced slightly.

“I’m still furious with you,” he continued. “But it’s a good idea. We’ll write a code.”

“And, no matter what reasons we think we have, we have to follow the code, on pain of dishonoring our names as white wizards,” Andrew finished.

“Exactly.”

Jonathan walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. He crossed his arms, fixing Andrew with a hard stare. The half-smile that had flickered at his lips had entirely disappeared now.

Andrew fidgeted.

“Get a notebook and pen,” Jonathan said finally. “Let’s start coming up with ideas.”

* * *

“Okay. Read it out – the whole thing.”

Jonathan leaned back against the wall, as he sat cross-legged on Andrew’s bed. Andrew sat at the other edge of the bed, and, on the mattress between them, a spiral-bound notebook lay open. The page displayed was half-full with messy scrawl and cross-outs. At the bottom of the page were four lines of marginally neater text.

Andrew picked up the notebook and cleared his throat. “Upon my honor as a white wizard,” he read. “I hereby vow to use my power to protect and defend myself and the defenseless; to respect and maintain the forces I use; to never seek control over body or mind of another individual; and to never cause any manner of harm.”  He glanced up. “ . . . Good?”

Jonathan nodded. “I think so. And we can add more to it later if we need to.”

“Yeah. So . . . how do we seal this vow? Do we have to use blood or spit or something?” Andrew wrinkled his nose slightly.

“You know, I think just signing our names will be good enough.”

Andrew looked relieved.

Jonathan watched on wordlessly as Andrew clicked open the pen and scribbled his name at the bottom. He still wasn’t entirely sure that Andrew truly understood what a violation the truth spell had been. Certainly, Andrew accepted the spell as a crime, but he seemed to believe that performing spellwork on Jonathan was some betrayal of a brotherly loyalty, nothing more. The control Andrew had stolen – the _helplessness_ Jonathan had felt – didn’t factor into his apologies at all. The thought made something twist uncomfortably in Jonathan’s belly.

Jonathan knew Andrew was his little brother, but it wasn’t often that he had to stop to consider just how _young_ Andrew truly was. It could be some time before Andrew was ready to understand the nature of control.

At least, he figured, however immature Andrew was, he _did_ admire honor. A “wizard’s code” would help guide him as he matured.

Andrew passed over the notebook and pen, and Jonathan quickly scribbled his name below Andrew’s.

When he looked up again, he was struck by Andrew’s expression. Andrew’s eyes were cast downwards, and a deep frown had appeared on his lips. He was, as usual, fidgeting slightly, but Jonathan had rarely seen him look so obviously upset.

“ . . . Andrew?”

Andrew glanced up. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again. Worry creased at his forehead.

“ _What_?” Jonathan asked. And if his voice came off a little sharp, well, he figured it was good of him to express any concern at all when he was still so angry with Andrew.  

Andrew dropped his gaze. There was a long pause.

Jonathan was about to give him a sharp prod, when Andrew finally spoke.

“Do . . . do you really want to _die_?” he murmured.

Jonathan froze. He looked away. “So, you want to talk about the elephant in the room.”

“Do you?” Andrew pressed.

For a long moment, Jonathan said nothing. He’d never meant to talk about any of this – and if Andrew hadn’t done his damn truth spell, he never would have had to. Jonathan felt a hot surge of anger, and his jaw clenched.

But Andrew was still staring at him, his eyes wide and frightened. Andrew may never have been meant to know, but the fact remained: he _did_ know, now.

Jonathan sighed. “Sometimes,” he admitted, finally. “Not as often as I used to. But sometimes, yeah.”

“But . . . _why_?”

Jonathan shrugged. “I already told you. How the others treat me – it goes on and on and it never stops, and no one ever even _notices._ ”

“But the magic!” Andrew protested. “All those defensive spells we learned? Don’t they help?”

“Sure, sometimes. That’s why I don’t think about it as much as I used to. But . . . no matter what spells I can do to ward people off, sometimes I just really wish they would stop trying to hurt me and just pay attention instead.”

Andrew fell quiet. He dropped his gaze to his lap, where his fingers were tugging on the hem of his sweatshirt. Jonathan just watched him for a moment, not saying anything more.

When Andrew spoke next, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Do you . . . do you think you’d ever really do it? K-kill yourself?”

Jonathan’s chest tightened, and he shot Andrew a burning glare. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“But I don’t want you to _die_!” Andrew wailed.

Jonathan flinched.

Andrew’s question burned in his mind. Would he ever actually do it? He wasn’t certain. Had he truly wanted to do it? Definitely. It had been a dark cloud weighing on his thoughts for almost the entirety of last year, through every beating, every humiliation, every failure. But . . . this year, it felt as if something had lifted. The thoughts still sometimes crossed his mind, but the pull wasn’t quite as strong as it had once been. It’d been months since he’d truly considered _how_ he’d do it. In fact, if he were being specific, he hadn’t _really_ thought about it since November – November, when he’d found the magic book, and he and Andrew had begun training in the spells that snatched back some of the control the bullies had stolen from them.

“ . . . No,” he said finally. “I don’t think I would. Maybe once, I would have. But now . . .” He shrugged. “I can stop them from hurting me. It doesn’t stop them from wanting to, but, usually, it’s enough.”

Andrew was staring at him, still looking lost and scared. Jonathan swallowed and looked away.

Then, without warning, Andrew suddenly launched himself forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Jonathan’s waist.

The force of the hug made Jonathan gasp. “A-Andrew?” he said, glancing down at the top of Andrew’s head.

“ . . . I’m glad you’re not dead,” Andrew muttered. His arms tightened around Jonathan, and he tucked his head down, pressing his cheek up against Jonathan’s chest.

Jonathan felt a surge of warmth in his chest. A small, slightly startled smile crossed his face. “ . . . Thanks,” he said finally. “I’m . . . I’m glad, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan's experience with depression and subsequent recovery in this story is not meant to represent all peoples' experience with the disorder. I write him as having moderate situational depression, for which improved social support and relatively increased safety was enough to make a significant difference. If you suffer from suicidal thoughts, please consult an actual professional.


	7. February 3, 1999

In the first week of February, a new spell was posted to the Wicca forum. It was called an “augmentation spell”, and the poster claimed that the spell would improve the caster’s proficiency in absolutely anything and everything.

“ _It’ll make you the best you you could possibly be_!” they insisted. “ _You’ll be able to do everything, and everyone will love you. Under the influence of this spell, you’ll be the coolest person you’ve ever met, and everyone else’s first reaction to meeting you will be instinctive adoration. They won’t be able to resist your charms, and no one will have any idea it’s because of magic, ha!”_

When Jonathan first read the post, a deep ache of longing surged in his chest. The idea of magic turning him into someone to be universally loved and idolized, someone he could be _proud_ of, was like the echo of a recurring daydream – except more poignant, because this spell was _real_ , laid out for him to do what he will. And even if online spells were unreliable, wasn’t the chance at confidence worth the risk?

But . . . he still remembered the false trust that Andrew had cast over him, which had laid him bare and pulled his secrets from him. He’d been completely helpless under the spell.

His gaze drifted to the wall above the computer, where Andrew had tacked up a photocopy of their “Wizard’s Code”. (Their parents never asked; as far as _they_ knew, there was nothing strange about the boys posting a new set of Dungeons and Dragons rules.)

_Upon my honor as a white wizard, I hereby vow to use my power to protect and defend myself and the defenseless; to respect and maintain the forces I use; to never seek control over body or mind of another individual; and to never cause any manner of harm._

And there, at the bottom, was Jonathan’s name, signed next to Andrew’s.

Jonathan heaved a sigh and glanced back down to the computer. He let his eyes linger over the description of the spell, imagining, just for a moment, the reality the spell could have created.

Then, he closed the browser window.


	8. April 2, 1999

The dogwood outside the classroom window was in full bloom, its branches laden with large, white blossoms. Jonathan watched the petals flutter in the light spring breeze, his pencil tapping against his desk. After a moment, he let his eyes slide back down to the sheet in front of him.

 _“9b.) How much work is done by the electric field moving an electron along an equipotential surface with a potential of 3V (given q_ _e_ _= 1.602 x 10_ _-19_ _C)?_ ”

Jonathan scowled at the problem. The classroom around him was silent, save for the scratching of pencil on paper and the clack of calculator buttons. He looked up; his classmates were all busily hunched over their tests. No one else was staring at the dogwood outside the window or tapping their pencils.

He glanced back down at the test, feeling anxiety twist in his gut. _Work done by an electric field_ . . . His head felt blank. He’d been looking at these notes just before class, but now his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t think.

But then, Jonathan pulled his legs up, and crossed them on the seat of his chair. He closed his eyes.

One . . . two . . . three.

He reached inward, and the energies of the Earth answered him. His chest warmed as the forces rushed through his body; he felt the tenseness that laced through his classmates, but also the stirring life force of the of the dogwood outside, and the fluttering newness of the baby birds in a nest he couldn’t even see. He reached deeper – and there, underlain beneath the budding energies of springtime, was the constant, gentle flux of the Earth’s magnetic field, like a geological heartbeat.

Jonathan breathed.

When he opened his eyes again, his mind felt clear. _Work done by an electric field to move an electric charge is opposite to the change in potential energy._

He picked up his pencil.

Forty-five minutes later, Jonathan stood, his finished test clutched in one hand. Half of his classmates were still hunched over their exams, but the rest were resting in front of empty desks, looking faintly bored.

As Jonathan approached the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, Mr. Boland glanced up.

“All done?” he said kindly.

Jonathan nodded, and handed over the sheet.

But before he could move away, Mr. Boland spoke again.

“Jonathan.”

His voice was soft enough so as to not carry over to the first row of desks. Jonathan felt his chest seize up immediately; private conversations with teachers had never boded well.   _Jonathan, I’m worried about you_ , they’d say. _I know you’re capable of better than this_. Or worse: _If there’s something you need to tell me about . . ._

But when Jonathan swallowed, and lifted his eyes to Mr. Boland’s, he saw not the concerned frown he expected, but a small, soft smile.

“I just finished grading your last lab report,” Mr. Boland said gently. “Full marks.”

Jonathan blinked.

“I’m very glad to see you’ve found your groove recently,” he continued. “If you keep this up for the final, you’ll finish the year with an A- average. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but keep it up – it’s going to help you in college.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said faintly. “Uh. Thank you.”

“Have you heard back from anywhere yet?”

A small smile flickered at Jonathan’s lips. “Yeah. I, uh, got into UC Sunnydale last week.”

“Excellent! Do you know what you’re going to major in?”

But now, Jonathan flinched, and he glanced away. He hated that question – hated it so furiously that the moment the words passed Mr. Boland’s lips, something twisted sickeningly in his chest.

“No. Not yet,” he muttered finally, staring at his toes.

“Well, good luck,” Mr. Boland said, undeterred. “Whatever you choose, I know you’re going to do wonderfully.”

“Uh, sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

Again, Mr. Boland smiled.

But when the bell finally rang, and Jonathan joined the throng of students leaving the classroom, a heavy weight had settled low in his belly.

The last period of the day was calculus class. When Jonathan entered the classroom, he saw an unfamiliar elderly man handing out worksheets, and on the blackboard, there was written, in a line of neat script: “ _Substitute: Mr. Salinas. Worksheets to be handed in and graded at the end of class. Groups are permitted.”_ A few other students had already arrived and taken their worksheets. Most didn’t seem particularly interested in the problems, choosing instead to gossip with their neighbors about their upcoming weekend plans.

Jonathan took a worksheet from Mr. Salinas and turned to his usual seat at the back of the classroom, where he expected to spend the rest of the hour in silence as he glowered at his integration notes. The weight in his belly felt somehow heavier than before.

But then, just as he set the paper on his desk, Jessica Albright dropped herself into the seat next to him.

“Hi, Jonathan!” she said brightly. “Uh, do you mind if I work with you?”

Jonathan blinked, startled. “ . . . Huh?” He couldn’t remember the last time someone had _asked_ to work with him; unless teachers made it mandatory for everyone to have a work partner, he usually ended up working alone. Yet – here Jessica was, sitting at a far back desk and smiling hopefully at him.

“I mean, if you’d rather work alone, that’s fine,” she added quickly.

“Oh. Er – y-yeah,” he stammered. “Uh, I mean, no! Um, that is – yes, you can work with me.”

He ducked his head, feeling heat rise at the back of his neck.

But Jessica didn’t seem fazed by his verbal fumbling. She grinned. “Great! I’m sorry – I hope I won’t be dragging you back. I’m a little slow at all this integration stuff.”

“Uh, it’s fine. I’m, um, not that good at it, either.”

“Well, we’ll figure it out,” she replied breezily.

“Um. Sure.” Jonathan sat down at his desk, nervously keeping his gaze fixed at the floor at his feet.

Next to him, Jessica pulled out a bright purple pencil topped with a butterfly eraser and a calculator that was decorated with glittery flower stickers.

“Er . . . so how do we want to do this?” Jonathan asked, as he pulled open his own calculator. “Uh . . . both of us do the whole thing and compare answers? Or split odd and evens?”

“Compare answers?” Jessica suggested. “I make a _lot_ of stupid mistakes, so—“

Suddenly, she broke off, and Jonathan glanced up to see one of Jessica’s friends – a small, athletic girl named Nancy Wu – standing before them. Nancy was wearing a mischievous kind of smirk, and, inexplicably, the tips of Jessica’s ears seemed to go slightly pink.

“Hi, Jess,” Nancy said cheerfully. “Having fun?”

“Oh, yes, these integrations are absolutely _riveting_ ,” Jessica retorted quickly, and Nancy’s grin widened. “But what are you doing here? You have a free period – isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather be, instead of a second hour of calculus?”

“I know, I know,” Nancy replied airily. “Don’t worry; I’ll leave you two alone in a second. I swear, if I knew you had _group work,_ I wouldn’t have come. But I didn’t run into you today, and I _had_ to tell you the good news.”

Jessica blinked, her eyes suddenly bright. “Good news?”

“This morning, I found out I got into CalArts!”

“ _Seriously_?”

“Seriously!”

Jessica laughed brightly and bounced up to wrap Nancy in a tight hug. “Oh, my gosh, Nancy! I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you!” Nancy beamed, a grin plastered from ear to ear. “I’m so happy for me, too! And I’ll let you go now – I still have to track down Lynette and Heather, and tell them.”

“Of course! And you’ll call me tonight, right? You have to tell me everything!”  

“Definitely! Eight o’clock good?”

“Yes – I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

Nancy laughed. “You definitely will! Anyway, I’ll see you, later, okay?” She gave Jessica one last squeeze, and then pulled away. “And . . . good luck!” She flashed Jessica a conspiratorial wink.

Jessica responded with a good-humored glare. Jonathan was sympathetic; he, too, was jealous of Nancy for having a free period.

As Nancy turned and bounced out the door again, the substitute teacher blinked after her. He tugged out the class roster, frowned at it, and scratched his head.

“Sorry about that,” Jessica said, once the door had sung shut again. “Nancy has just been _so_ excited about CalArts since, like, sophomore year. This is huge for her, and she totally deserves it – did you see her work in the art show this year?”

“Um, maybe?” Jonathan replied, still feeling a little dazed by Jessica’s attention. He’d expected to spend the entire class period in silence, ignored by the rest of his classmates, but Jessica was _apologizing_ for a thirty-second interruption in their conversation. It was . . . an odd feeling.

“It was a self-portrait – it got second prize.”

“Oh, right,” Jonathan said, although he still didn’t recall the piece.

“Well, better her than me,” Jessica continued cheerfully. “I could never study fine arts. I was in her drawing class last year. I could never do anything bigger than a card before getting bored, but it was amazing to see her work. It just comes so easily to her – art is definitely what Nancy is meant to do.”

“Uh-huh.”

The weight in Jonathan’s belly was growing heavy again. He dropped his gaze to the paper in front of him. Black numbers and letters were stark on white – equations he could solve with notes and some time to think. But even if he was no longer only just barely passing calculus, it still never came easy. He wished just something – _anything_ – would come easy to him.

“What do you want to major in?”

And there was that damn question again.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan said, his voice suddenly brittle.

Jessica didn’t seem to notice his tone. “I’m thinking about chemistry. Of course, college classes will be a lot different from high school, but it was my _favorite_ class this year. Even if I do have to keep doing calculus, I think it’ll be worth it.”

Jonathan blinked unseeingly at his paper. He was gratified – and still a little stunned – that Jessica wanted to talk to him, but he wished desperately that she would talk about something else.

“Look – I, uh . . . I think we should work on the assignment,” he mumbled.

“Oh.” Jessica’s face fell slightly. “Um, of course.”

He didn’t meet her eyes.

As it turned out, working in groups could be almost as silent as working alone.

* * *

That evening at dinner, Jonathan kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the plate in front of him. Thankfully, Andrew was excitedly babbling about his latest enthusiasm, and so his parents didn’t seem to notice Jonathan’s subdued demeanor. On the infrequent occasion that the conversation turned to him, Jonathan kept his sentences short and vague, and he quickly opened a place for Andrew to jump back in. He barely heard what they were even talking about.

“So, Jonathan, what do you think?” Andrew said eagerly, when the leftover pasta had been cleared away, and the dessert just brought out the table.

“Hm. I agree. You’re totally right.”

But this time, instead of nodding enthusiastically and launching into a long-winded, opinionated ramble, Andrew blinked. “Agree?” he echoed. “Uh, what are you talking about?”

“Er . . . uh, sorry,” Jonathan muttered, hastily arranging his features into an expression of keen interest. “What were you asking?”

“The _cannoli_ ,” Andrew said, and nodded at the plate in front of Jonathan. “What do you think?”

“Oh, uh.” Jonathan glanced down sheepishly. In his inattentiveness, he’d been breaking off little pieces of the shell at one end and scattering the small pieces over the plate like confetti. Now, he hastily picked up a small scrap of shell and dug it into the ricotta filling. “Mm. Really good.” He threw in an approving nod for good measure.

Andrew beamed.

“I’m still impressed you did this completely on your own,” their mother said, using her spoon to scoop up a little filling from one end of her own cannoli. “Your father really didn’t help at all, huh?”

“I wasn't even home,” their father replied. “It’s his own recipe!”

Andrew looked deeply pleased with himself. He’d puffed out his chest, and now he drew a hand through his hair, as if to smooth it.

Jonathan picked up the slightly tattered cannoli on his plate and took a proper bite from the end. It _was_ a pretty good cannoli. Not that Jonathan was any particularly great judge of Italian pastries, of course – but he thought it tasted alright, and he kind of liked the crunch of the shell.

“You know, Andrew,” their father said slowly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I’ve been thinking – how far do you want to take this whole cooking thing?”

“Um, what do you mean?” Andrew asked.

“I mean,” their father replied. “Have you considered if you want to do this for a living?”

Jonathan froze. He’d always known that Andrew had a knack in the kitchen that most kids their age didn’t – but now, his father was talking about a _career_?

Across the table, Andrew looked almost as taken aback as Jonathan felt, but a lopsided grin had also begun to tug at one corner of his lips. “A living?” he repeated wonderingly. “You . . . you really think I could?”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“I-I don’t know,” Andrew replied. “Maybe? I think so? I haven’t really thought about it a lot, I guess.”

“Think about it,” their father said gently. “You could do it, if that’s what you want. You have the ability.”

Andrew had begun to fidget with the collar of his shirt, even as he grinned. “I do really like cooking . . . especially baking,” he admitted.

“And if you find a job you love, you’ll never have to go to work a day in your life,” their father added, a smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

“You will have to think about it,” their mother said. “If that’s what you want to do, you’ll have to consider what you need to do for your education and training. College might not be the right choice for you, and you’ll have to decide whether you want to go through culinary schools or apprenticeships—“

“Don’t overwhelm him, honey,” their father interrupted gently.

She broke off. “Sorry,” she said, offering Andrew a small smile. “I suppose there is plenty of time before you have to make any decisions. But do think about it; there’s a lot you’ll have to consider.”

“We’re proud of you,” their father added. “And if you want to be a chef or a baker, we just want you to work your hardest to be the best you can possibly be.”

Andrew nodded sagely.

“You know,” their mother continued. “Remember Elena, that girl who runs the bakery across the street from the office? I’ve been telling her about your work, and she sounds very impressed. If you want to get a taste of what it’s like to work as a baker, we can see if she might have a position for you for the summer.”

Andrew visibly brightened. “A job? Really?”

“It’ll be a good experience for you, if you want to try it.”

“Well, _yeah_! When can I ask her?”  

“How about we go in this weekend?”

Andrew nodded enthusiastically.  

Jonathan watched him for a moment, feeling something twist uncomfortably in his belly.

“I’m tired,” he said abruptly, and stood up from the table. The suddenness of the movement seemed to startle Andrew and their mother, both of whom jumped slightly. Even their father blinked.  “I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“Uh, but what about the rest of your cannoli?” Andrew asked, with a pointed glance at Jonathan’s half-eaten pastry.

“You did a good job on them – you deserve a second one.” He shoved the plate in Andrew’s direction.

“But I already have more on the counter . . . ,” Andrew muttered.

Jonathan didn’t hear him; he’d already turned and left the kitchen.

Jonathan strode up the stairs and made his way to his bedroom, where he threw himself immediately onto his bed. With a heavy groan, he buried his face in the fabric of his pillow.

For several long minutes, he just lay there, listening to the quiet murmurings of his family downstairs and relishing the darkness of his own room. When he finally rolled over again, his eyes had adjusted to the shadows, and from his position on the bed, he could make out the shape of the acceptance package from UC Sunnydale on his desk.

Jonathan shot a furious scowl at the desk, then covered his face with his hands and let out a soft sigh.

Two weeks ago, he would have traded his entire Babylon 5 novel collection for just one university acceptance letter. “Where are you going for college?”everyone kept asking, and, again and again, Jonathan would feel his heart sink in his chest as he replied: “I don’t know.”

Just one acceptance letter, he thought – if only he could meet his teacher’s eyes when they asked where he’d be next year, he could be happy again.

But now, he had his acceptance . . . and he’d never counted on the next question: “What are you going to major in?”

Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had that big welcome package from UC Sunnydale. _“What are you good at_?” the question seemed to ask. “ _What are you good for_?”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan would reply, again and again. _I don’t know what I’m good at. I don’t know what I’m good for_. His grades had picked up recently, but he hardly had the drive in any particular direction.

“College classes will be a lot different from high school,” Jessica had said, and she was right, and it was just his luck – he’d only just gotten the hang of high school tests and assignments, but now college was asking him to devote himself to whatever subject he cared about most. And Jonathan had no idea what that might be. It wasn’t as if he could declare a major in magic _,_ even if he _was_ studying in Sunnydale.

He almost wished he’d never received that damn response from UC Sunnydale. What did it matter if he went to college, if he had no particular talent?

And now, even Andrew – _Andrew_ , his immature, fifteen year-old little brother – had not only an ambition, but a chance at an actual _job_.

The weight in Jonathan’s belly was almost painful. Miserable, Jonathan curled in on himself and desperately willed the weight away.

It didn’t obey, but eventually, Jonathan drifted off into sleep. That night, he slept fitfully, his dreams full of questions he didn’t know how to answer.


	9. April 3, 1999

Fortunately for Andrew – but unfortunately for Jonathan – the meeting with Elena that Saturday went well.

The evening following the meeting, Andrew and Jonathan sat on the floor of Jonathan’s room, several Ziploc bags open between them. They each had a large stack of herbs, and were busy cleaning and sorting the plants into the respective bags.

“Miss Elena says that sometimes my shift is going to start at three in the morning,” Andrew said, almost breaking a yarrow stem in his excitement as he stripped the leaves. “Which is gonna suck, but also be really cool, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan replied tonelessly.

He didn’t want to tell Andrew not to talk about his new summer job – Jonathan didn’t particularly relish the uncomfortable questions that would undoubtedly follow – but he hoped desperately that Andrew would soon lose interest in babbling about the bakery. Until then, Jonathan knew his attempts to change the subject would be completely fruitless.

But now, Andrew had been going on for almost two hours, and he’d made no show of running out of steam. Inwardly, Jonathan heaved a sigh.

“It’d just be, like, really awesome to be a baker,” Andrew continued. “I have so many ideas for when I have my own bakery, too – like, I could have a shop where everything is inspired by comics! That would be _so cool_!”  

And Jonathan was still scowling at his sprig of lavender, but he had to admit that a comic-inspired bakery _did_ sound kind of cool.

But, then, Andrew went on: “And I was thinking that I could bake like spellsinto things! You know, like, for luck, and health, and speed, and strength . . . “

Jonathan’s head shot up.

Andrew already had a direction and a job, and now he was talking about taking _magic_ on professionally as well. Jonathan’s emotions must have showed on his face, because Andrew suddenly trailed off and frowned.

“ . . . What?”

“Uh.” Jonathan dropped his gaze. “Just . . . um.” He gave an awkward half-shrug, casting his mind around for some logical argument for his discomfort. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea? Giving food with spells in them to people who don’t know about magic, I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, isn’t it a bit like putting weed in a brownie without telling someone?”

Andrew scowled. “They were only _good_ spells,” he muttered petulantly.

But then, before Jonathan could open his mouth to argue his point, Andrew suddenly brightened.

“So, they’ll have to _ask_ for the stuff with spells in them! It’ll be, like, a secret menu for people who know about magic! That’s even _cooler_!”

Jonathan stared at the sprig of lavender in his hands. “Yeah. Cool.”

“You know what would also be cool?” Andrew added, tossing his cleaned yarrow into a bag and then leaning back on his elbows.

“Mm.”

“If you ran a magic shop or magic service! You could, like, do spells for people for money, and when I get that bakery, we could share customers!”

Jonathan paused. For a moment, the future Andrew imagined flashed in his mind: being paid to do magic – to have a job doing the spells he studied for hours on his own time . . . Jonathan remembered the way magic had felt flowing through his body the very first time he had touched on the energies of the Earth; he remembered the rush he felt only last week when he finally successfully teleported his desk to the kitchen and back.

But it wasn’t the first time Jonathan had considered the idea.

“I can’t,” he said sharply.

“Why not?” Andrew replied. “You’re _really_ good at magic! Like . . . even better me – just by a _tiny_ bit.”

That startled him; while Jonathan grasped new magic faster than Andrew and was able to manipulate the forces around him into doing simple tasks without the use of a formal spell, Andrew had never before _admitted_ that Jonathan might have more skill. For a moment, it felt as if the weight in Jonathan’s belly had lifted, just slightly.

“But it doesn't matter,” he said finally. “What do you want me to do? Declare myself a _professional wizard_?”

“ . . . Yeah?”

Jonathan snorted. “I can just imagine: ‘Mom, Dad, guess what? I’m doing magic for a living! No, I don’t mean illusions and tricks – I mean actual, _mystical_ magic that you don’t even know exists!’ Yeah, that’ll go over _real_ well. They’d have me committed.”

“Who cares what Mom and Dad think?” Andrew retorted. “Just don’t tell them! Magic could be, like, your destiny!”

“And what am I supposed to tell them in the meantime?” Jonathan snapped. He hunched his shoulders and scowled at the floor. “You just don’t get it, Andrew. You _have_ a skill to show Mom and Dad! You don’t know what it’s like to have to hide so much!”

“Don’t I? I do magic, too, Jonathan! _And_ I haven’t told them that I’m . . . that I’m _bisexual_!”

Jonathan winced guiltily. “You _could_ tell them,” he mumbled. “It’s not like they’d put you on the street or anything if they knew.”

“Yeah, but they probably wouldn’t really understand, either,” Andrew replied. “Mom would probably ask me why I don’t just date only girls, because it’s ‘safer’, or something like that.”

“ . . . Well, why don’t you?”

There was a heavy silence. Andrew’s scowl darkened. He sat up, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t work like that,” he snapped. “It’s not like I can turn it on and off or anything.”

“But you’ve _seen_ what jackasses people can be!” Jonathan argued stubbornly. “You start dating a dude, and you’ll just be inviting them to give you trouble!”

Andrew shot him a furious glare. “You sound _exactly_ like Mom!”

“Well, maybe Mom’s right! You know, I don’t think you have a single _ounce_ of self-preservation. You don’t _care_ if you’re putting yourself in danger!”

“Of course I do!” Andrew retorted, his voice shrill in indignation. “There’s a reason you’re the only person I’ve told!”

“I – what?”

“I thought _you_ would be cool about it!” Andrew stood up suddenly, letting the rest of his stalks of yarrow fall to the ground. “But the only jackass I see here is you!”

“I—“

“I hate you!” Andrew shrieked. “And I’m not going to help you with your stupid herbs anymore! You can finish cleaning them yourself!”

He spun on his heel and stomped out of the room.

“They’re _your_ herbs too!” Jonathan shouted after him, but Andrew had already slammed the door shut behind him.

Jonathan was left sitting alone on the floor of his room, stalk of lavender limp in his hands. Somehow, even the plants looked accusing. With a huff of frustration, he tossed the lavender down and stood.

The weight in his belly had returned, worse than ever, and now, as the pressure of guilt pressed down on him, there was a tightness in his chest as well. 


	10. April 4, 1999

“Andrew, I’m sorry.”

The morning sunlight was streaming in through the window, lying across the kitchen counter in long, slanted rectangles. Andrew stood at the sink, where he was rinsing off his favorite Klingon raktajino mug. At Jonathan’s words, he paused, but did not say anything in return.

“Seriously, I was an idiot. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Hmph,” Andrew replied. Keeping his back pointedly turned to Jonathan, he moved down the counter to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“Yep,” Andrew agreed, now stirring large spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.

“So, uh. I’m sorry.”

Finally, Andrew turned to look at Jonathan. For a moment, he just fixed Jonathan with a stubborn scowl, one arm awkwardly crossed across his chest. Then, just as Jonathan began to fidget uneasily, he gave a short nod, accepting the apology. “Good.”

There was a long pause.

“Um . . . so. Do you want to go to the magic store tonight? We’re running low on candles.”

Andrew ‘hmm’ed, making a show of considering Jonathan’s proposal. But, ultimately, he gave a small shrug, and said: “Okay.”

* * *

So, that evening, Andrew and Jonathan set off from their house with a list of candle types stowed away in Jonathan’s front pocket and a bag slung over Andrew’s shoulder. Their mother waved them off as they passed through the entrance hall, bidding them to “enjoy the movie”.

“You’ll be home by midnight?” she asked, the usual wrinkle of worry creasing at the spot between her eyebrows.

“Yes, Mom,” Jonathan promised patiently. “See you soon!”

Once the front door had swung shut behind them, he turned to shoot a scowl at Andrew. “You had to say we were going to a _movie_? Now we have to find a way to kill two and a half hours! It’ll take like twenty minutes to get the candles!”

“If you don’t like it, come up with a better excuse yourself next time!” Andrew retorted. “And we _could_ go to The Bronze after,” he added hopefully.

Jonathan snorted. “Did you even look up the movie schedule for tonight? And the summaries? What are we gonna tell them about the ‘movie’ when we get home?”

“Calm your horses, Worry-than! It’s not like they’re going to _inquisition_ us about the movie. And if it bothers you that much, we could also just actually go to a movie after the store.”

“I wanted to get home early tonight,” Jonathan muttered, but Andrew had already bounced ahead of him on the sidewalk.

Jonathan heaved a sigh and hurried to catch up.

Apparently, Jonathan’s prediction of twenty minutes to buy candles wasn’t quite accurate; barely ten minutes later, they were on the sidewalk again, fresh candles stuffed in Andrew’s bag.

Andrew turned to look at Jonathan, expression hopeful. “So . . . ,” he said slowly. “The Bronze?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t know _why_ you want to go there; it’s not like anyone ever talks to us.”

But that didn’t seem to deter Andrew, who simply beamed and led the way down the sidewalk.

Andrew appeared to have fully forgiven Jonathan for his misstep the previous night, because he kept up a steady stream of cheerful babble during the full fifteen-minute walk to The Bronze. Jonathan was so relieved that Andrew didn’t harbor a grudge – living with a pissed-off Andrew was borderline impossible – that he didn’t even bother to argue when Andrew declared Montgomery Scott to be a better engineer than Geordi La Forge.   

Andrew’s apparent forgiveness was a weight off his shoulders, but Jonathan wished desperately there was some way he could relieve the weight in his belly that seemed to have persisted ever since he got that damn acceptance package from UC Sunnydale. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t see any quick way to escape this feeling.

Jonathan was so lost in his thoughts that he almost tripped right over the man lying by the entrance to The Bronze.

His foot caught on the man’s shoulder, and he stumbled – and when he looked down, and saw the pool of blood and the ashen pallor of the man’s face, he felt himself go cold. There was a messy puncture wound on the man’s neck – it looked as if someone had torn the skin open for the fun of it, but hadn’t even stuck around to feed.

Andrew let out a startled, high-pitched shriek. “Oh _my God_! Is he dead?!”

“I – uh . . . I . . .” Some instinct still working drove Jonathan to his knees, and, almost unseeingly, he fumbled to press two fingers against the man’s neck.

He let out a breath.

“He’s alive!”

“R-really?”

“Yeah, but, uh, that’s a lot of blood he’s lost. That can’t be good.” Jonathan’s mind, which had shuddered to a stop at the first sight of the man, had now jumped to overdrive. His gaze flitted about the empty alley, thoughts darting through his head almost too fast for him to catch.

The man was alive, but he was bleeding fast, and Jonathan thought that the pulse under his fingers felt fluttery and weak. The man was dying, right in front of them – _would_ die, unless he and Andrew did something.

“Andrew, go inside, and use the phone – call an ambulance. Now!” Jonathan’s voice was unexpectedly steady, and Andrew hastened to obey.

As Andrew wrenched open the door to The Bronze, Jonathan tugged off his sweatshirt and shoved the fabric up against the wound on the man’s neck. He pressed down, hard.  The man didn’t react.

Jonathan could feel the warm stickiness of blood soaking through the material of his sweatshirt. His heart was pounding in his chest; the blood was still flowing steadily from the wound, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jonathan remembered a statistic: the average ambulance takes seven minutes to arrive. Seven minutes – how much blood would that be?

Too much, Jonathan thought grimly. He had no idea how long the man had been lying there before he and Andrew had almost gone tumbling over him.

The door swung open again and Andrew raced out, a manager from The Bronze close on his heels.

“I can’t believe this happened _again_!” the manager groaned. “We already have a reputation for danger. How we have any customers left is beyond me!”

“I called the ambulance,” Andrew panted, his eyes wild as he fell to his knees next to Jonathan. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan muttered, his gaze fixed on the growing bloodstains on his jacket. “He’s losing blood fast.”

Andrew made an unhappy whimpering sound.

But then, Jonathan glanced up sharply, his expression suddenly set. “Andrew! Do you have any herbs in your bag?”

“Uh, a few? Why?”

“Which ones? Quickly!”

“Um . . . I-I was working on finishing cleaning them, so um, lavender, and mugwort, and yarrow . . .”

“Yarrow! Perfect – get that for me, and a ginseng candle! And I’m going to need you to shield me from view of that manager.”

Andrew’s eyes flew wide. “You’re going to do magic to save his life!”

“I’m going to try,” Jonathan muttered grimly. “Now, come on – get me the herbs!”

Andrew scrambled for his bag and dug out a smoke gray candle and a Ziploc stuffed with green leaves. He tossed them down in front of Jonathan.

As Andrew pushed himself back up to his feet, using his smallish stature to hide Jonathan to the best of his ability, Jonathan snatched up the supplies with one hand, the other still pressing the sweatshirt firmly to the wound on the man’s neck. He didn’t have a lighter or set of matches, so, with a wave of his hand, he summoned a spark. The wick caught, and a small flame blossomed from the tip.

The first tendrils of ginseng-scented smoke rose into the air as Jonathan sprinkled crumbled leaves over the man’s chest and neck. He added an extra handful for potency – the yarrow leaves were only half-cleaned, and they hadn’t yet found the time to conduct the rites meant to magnify the herb’s effectiveness – and then shifted the candle closer to the man’s neck.

“ _Vēiovis_ ,” he murmured.”Obscero, sana hic homo. Ego immolabo vobis carnes hircorum. Sed, obscero vos protegant.”

There was a second’s lull – then the small flame on the candle flared suddenly higher, and the man’s neck grew hot under Jonathan’s hands.

He wrenched away the sweatshirt and watched as the torn skin knit itself together, the blood slowing as the wound shrank. It wasn’t a perfect heal; the cut didn’t completely close, and fresh blood continued to bubble slowly from the unclotted laceration. The man’s eyes remained closed.

But it was a definite improvement. The pool of blood was staining the knees of Jonathan’s jeans, but the red stretching across the pavement had visibly slowed.

Jonathan pushed the sweatshirt back down onto the cut and breathed. He could feel the weak tremble of the man’s life force under his fingertips. For a moment, the wild thought crossed his mind to reach out with his own raw power to slow the man’s heart or divert the blood from the wound – maybe even finish pulling the skin together himself, to finish the work the god Vejovis had left half-done.

But Jonathan held back. He didn’t completely understand the human body. He could feel the forces and flows intertwining and interacting to keep the man alive; he knew he could touch any one of them, manipulate and pull and urge them to do his bidding – but he couldn’t know that his actions would ultimately help. For all he knew, his slightest touch against the energies of the man’s life force would _kill_ him. No – it was better to trust the god had done enough at Jonathan’s invocation.

Nevertheless, there was a tightness in Jonathan’s chest, and his fingers twitched with the ache to do _something_ more.

Finally, the wail of sirens pierced the air, and Jonathan hastened to snuff the still-burning candle, even as he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

The ambulance skidded to a stop at the entrance to the alleyway, and two paramedics jumped out of the doors. When they reached the small gang, they took one look at the limp body on the ground, and identical looks of grim comprehension crossed their faces.

“Good work, kid,” said one paramedic, a beefy man with a tattoo on one side of his neck. “We got it now – step back, please.”

Jonathan scrambled to his feet, as the two paramedics took his place by the man’s side.

“And, uh – don’t forget your weed.” The second paramedic – a tall, redheaded woman – shot him a wry grin and tossed the bag of yarrow in his direction.

Jonathan felt his face go hot. “I-it’s not . . . not . . .” But the paramedic had already busied herself inspecting the still-unconscious man’s neck, and Jonathan let his voice trail off.

“It’s a small cut,” muttered the first paramedic. “I’m amazed it bled so much.”

“Maybe he’s got a blood disorder,” replied the second. “Do you see a medical ID?”

Jonathan and Andrew hung back as the paramedics worked, and the manager fluttered about, asking fretfully how the man was doing – “We just can’t have _another_ death!” But the burly paramedic waved him off. “We’ve got him in time. He’ll be fine.”

Andrew turned to Jonathan then, his eyes shining. “Dude – you did it!” he hissed, in a low undertone. “You saved his life! With magic! You’re – you’re a _superhero_!”

“ _Shhhh!_ ” Jonathan hushed him hastily; the paramedics and the manager were still close enough that if they strained, they would be able to hear every word he and Andrew said. But something warm had surged in his chest, and he ducked his head to hide the small smile that was beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. “C’mon,” he urged, and took Andrew’s elbow to lead him out of the alley.

The adults, still fussing about the unconscious man, didn’t seem to notice them slip away.  

“But dude, _seriously_!” Andrew said, once they’d reached the sidewalk of the main street. “That was awesome! You did that entire spell from memory?”

“Well, yeah. That’s the point of an emergency spell, isn’t it? You don’t have to look it up when you need to use it.” Jonathan shrugged. “And I’ve been offering goat sausages to Vejovis for a while, so I can call on a favor even when I don’t have a sacrifice lying around. But it didn’t heal completely, I guess because we didn’t finish treating the yarrow.”

“You built up store credit with a god,” Andrew said, awed.

“I . . . uh, I guess?”

“That’s so _cool_.”

Jonathan grinned. He supposed it _was_ pretty cool.

But then, he glanced down at his jeans, and winced. “Aw, man. Mom’s going to kill me.”

The dark patches of blood had soaked from his knees to halfway down his calves – _and_ he had left his sweatshirt back at the entrance of The Bronze, he realized belatedly.  He couldn’t go back now; he wasn’t sure how closely the paramedics looked at the wound, but he didn’t want to start answering any uncomfortable questions.

Andrew peered at the denim and made a sympathetic sound. “Did you memorize any emergency cleaning spells?”

“I don’t really consider _cleaning_ to be an emergency, you know.”

“Well, either you go home with bloodstains, or you go home pantless.”

“Maybe I should rethink my policy.”

“What if you just told them, though?” Andrew asked, as Jonathan picked at his jeans, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“What do you mean?”

“You saved a dude’s life! You could just, like, be honest about where the blood came from – they can’t kill you if you’re a _hero_.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Saving a life or not, they still don’t get magic.”

“Don’t tell them about the magic part. Just like, talk about putting your jacket on the wound and stuff. That was so James Bond!”

“Awkward questions,” Jonathan replied dismissively. “They’ll want to know who it was, and the hospital might find us, and the doctors there might have noticed the cut is more healed than it should be.”

“So . . . you’re just going to pretend it never happened?” Andrew whined. “Even though it was awesome?”

Jonathan fell silent. He imagined, for a moment, coming home as a hero, blood of the man he saved worn proudly on his jeans. He imagined the stunned, proud expressions that would cross his parents’ faces; he imagined the attention he would finally garner from his classmates – _positive_ attention, for once.

But his previous argument still stood; there would be too many awkward questions. There was no guarantee anyone would even believe him.

Jonathan stared down at his palms. The fingers were still stained red, and as he flexed them, he remembered the rush of holding in the man’s life force, with both his physical hands and the touch of his mind. The warmth in his chest was still there – he had _saved someone’s life_. It had been a simple spell, one of the first he’d learned, but it had been enough to keep a man alive – the reason that man would go home one day, to watch more movies, eat more meals . . . maybe he even had a brother, and now he would live to fight with him some more. For the first time in weeks, Jonathan’s chest felt light.

Maybe he and Andrew were the only ones who knew what had really happened, but . . . he _had_ done it. He’d been a hero. And that was with using just the simplest of spells, before even having enough knowledge of the human body for true magical innovation.

“No,” he said finally. “I . . . I can’t tell them about this. But there is something else I _can_ tell them.”

“What?”

“Come on!” Jonathan urged. “Let’s get home, so I can tell them!”

“ _What is it_?!”

* * *

On the way back to their house, Jonathan and Andrew passed by a large muddy field, and Jonathan paused to cake mud all up his calves. By the time he was standing in the entrance hall of his home, the murky water had soaked into his socks, making his shoes squelch as he walked.

“Boys?” Their mother emerged from the living room at the sound of the front door opening. “You’re home earlier than I expected. Was the movie—“ Suddenly, she froze, staring slack-jawed at the state of Jonathan’s pants. “ _Jonathan_! What happened?!”

Sheepishly, Jonathan glanced down. He lifted one shoe slightly, and mud dripped from the toe. In the excitement, he’d completely forgotten about the movie he and Andrew were supposedly attending, but at least his clothing gave him a ready excuse. “I . . . er. We didn’t go, ‘cause I, uh, fell.”

“Andrew, did you push your brother?”

“No!” Andrew retorted, an indignant scowl flashing across his face.

“Really?”

“No, really, he didn’t,” Jonathan put in hastily. “I just tripped. I’m sorry – I’ll clean it up myself.”

“Well, okay. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Um . . . where’s Dad?”

“Here.” Their father poked his head around the corner from the kitchen, a glass and a dishtowel in his hands. At the sight of Jonathan’s pants, his eyebrows arched slightly. “Oh, my.”  

“Er, yeah. Sorry again.”

With both parents standing in front of him, nerves began to twist in Jonathan’s belly. He swallowed hard, but even if his anxiety made him slightly queasy, he still felt infinitely better than he had with that weight lingering at the pit of his stomach for so many weeks.

“I, uh, just wanted to tell you guys,” he continued, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve decided . . . I want to study pre-med in college.”

His father’s eyebrows arched higher immediately, and his mother blinked, looking suddenly lost for words. Behind Jonathan, Andrew let out a soft: “ _Ohh_!”

The twisting in Jonathan’s belly intensified. He swallowed, and rushed on: “I know this is really sudden, but I, uh, my grades have gotten a lot better recently! I can work really hard in college, and I was never that bad at biology or anything. I just really want to help—“

“Jonathan, calm down.” Their father’s voice was soft, and a small smile flickered across his lips. “We were surprised, that’s all. You came home looking like a mess, and we’re worried you might be hurt, and now you’re talking about your university program.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said weakly. “No, really, I’m fine! I just – I just want to do pre-med.”

“That’s great,” their father replied. “I _know_ your grades have gotten better recently, and I’m proud of you. If you want to do pre-med, you have our support.” He smiled.

“Yes,” their mother agreed. She still looked a little dazed, but had recovered enough to add: “We’ll look through the UC Sunnydale guidelines for pre-med, and help you plan your courses. You’ll have a busy schedule, but I know you know how to work hard. Although . . .” She paused, and gazed at Jonathan, considering. “What brought this on, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Behind him, Andrew giggled.

Jonathan deliberately trod on Andrew’s foot – Andrew yelped. “Sorry,” Jonathan said airily. “Oh, you know,” he continued, speaking to his mother now. “I’ve just been thinking about it recently. I want to do something medical, help people. Maybe not doctor specifically, but . . . _something_.”

“Okay,” his mother replied. “I know you’ll do wonderfully.”

Nervously, Jonathan smiled and shifted his weight on his feet.

“Now, please go upstairs and change out of those pants! You’re dripping mud _everywhere!”_

He winced. “Yes, Mom!”   


	11. April 19, 1999

The rush of students pressed down upon Jonathan as he crouched by his locker at the end of the day. His backpack was open on the ground in front of him, and he rifled quickly through the notebooks stacked at the foot of his locker, squeezing as close as he could to the wall to avoid being trampled by the crowd of students. He shoved a few notebooks unceremoniously into his bag and wrenched the zipper closed.

Before he closed the locker, however, Jonathan paused. As if suddenly struck by a thought, his gaze flickered up to the top shelf of his locker, where a small cardboard box was settled in a back corner.

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder surreptitiously. As per usual, no one was paying attention to him.

Carefully, he slid the cardboard box off its shelf and flipped it open. Inside, a drawstring pouch embroidered with silvery runes was settled in a nest of dried herbs – there were the yellow and purple flowers of fennel and heather, sprinkled through with the dark red resin of the dragon’s blood tree, and the sharp scent of crushed garlic wafted from the open box.

Jonathan fished out the drawstring pouch and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans. Then, he closed up the larger box and shoved it back into the dark recesses of his locker.

He had just risen to one knee in preparation to stand, when a heavy bag collided sharply with his right arm.

Jonathan let out a sharp yelp. “Hey!”

But the owner of the bag didn’t even pause to apologize. Jonathan shot a dark scowl over his shoulder.

Rubbing his arm petulantly, Jonathan rose to his feet. He hated the rush of the end of the day, where having a bottom locker left him in significant danger of being trod on or trampled. Of course, if his classmates ever bothered to _notice_ him, maybe they’d choose to actually step around him instead . . . He sighed resignedly.

Well, he was used to being ignored. High school would be over soon, anyway.

He slammed his locker shut, and turned to trudge down the hall.

“Hey, Jonathan! Wait up!”

Jonathan blinked. Behind him, Jessica Albright was pushing through the throng of students, and when he turned to look at her, a warm, open smile spread across her face.

“ . . . Jessica?”

“Hey!” she greeted cheerfully, coming to a halt by his side. The struggle to squeeze through the other students had left her face slightly flushed, and she pushed a wisp of blonde hair that had escaped her short ponytail back behind her ear.

“Um, hi?”

“Hey,” she said again. “I, uh – I have something for you.”

Jonathan frowned slightly. “I don’t need your half of the calculus project until Thursday.”

“No, it’s not that! Although, I _am_ almost done with that, just so you know. No – I wanted to give you this—“ She rifled through her purse, and withdrew an off-white card envelope, of the same kind Jonathan had received around the holidays. Looking suddenly shy, she proffered it to him. “I know it’s a little silly. But I, um . . . oh, just open it!”  

Bewildered, Jonathan slit open the envelope and pulled out the card from inside.

And promptly, he froze.

The front of the card was decorated with paper cutouts of formalwear; a tux stood next to the form of a royal blue gown that reminded Jonathan of a night sky, with glitter sprinkled all along the neckline and across the skirt of the dress. Carefully penciled balloons and stars framed the edges of the card, and – there, along the bottom, elegant calligraphy spelled out: “ _PROM_ ”. Inside, in the same calligraphy, was a single line: _“Will you go with me?”_

Jonathan stared up at Jessica, his eyes wide. His heart was beating erratically in his chest, and he could feel the back of his neck growing warm. “You . . . you made a card to – to ask _me_ to prom?” he squeaked.

Jessica grinned and ducked her head shyly. “I know – it’s silly and probably over the top. I just . . . I like making cards.”

“But . . . you’re asking _me._ ” Jonathan swallowed, and dropped his gaze back to the card, as if frightened it would disappear if he stopped looking at it too long. If he’d received this card from anyone else, he would have suspected that he was – again – at the butt of some cruel prank. But Jessica had never been the type to run with Harmony and her friends. He only hoped he wasn’t about to wake up.

“Yeah, _you_ ,” Jessica replied, sounding amused. “So . . . um, what do you say?”

“I, uh . . . I don’t have tickets,” he murmured faintly.

“Nor do I. If we buy them together, we can get the couple’s discount. I mean, if you want to go, of course!” She hurriedly added, turning slightly red. “It’s fine if you don’t.”

“No, I do! I-I just . . . You’re really asking _me_?”

This time, Jessica let out a small laugh, and Jonathan flinched. But when he finally looked back up, he saw that her expression was warm – almost _fond_.

“Really!” she said. “Do _you_ , Jonathan Levinson, want to go to prom with me?”

“Oh. I . . . _yeah_. Yeah, definitely.”

Jonathan felt slightly lightheaded. Surreptitiously, he took a small step to the left and leaned up against the wall for support. Just in case.

Jessica was asking him to prom. _Had_ asked him to prom. And he’d said yes. He sucked in a deep breath.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Jessica said. “I was beginning to think you were offended that I was asking you!”

“No! That’s not . . . I, uh, just didn’t expect anyone to ask me.”

“I noticed,” Jessica replied, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

Jonathan felt heat rise in his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze to the tiles at his feet.

Jessica was just talking about prom, he reminded himself furiously – it didn’t necessarily mean anything. People went to prom with their friends all the time, and Jessica was a very friendly person. This wasn’t necessarily a date.

But then, Jessica continued: “Actually, I was wondering . . . um, do you want to come get ice cream with me this afternoon? Together, I mean?”

Well, _that_ definitely sounded like a date.

“Oh. I, uh . . . God, I—“ Jonathan groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I _can’t_. Not today – it’s my brother’s birthday.”

 _Today_. Jessica had to ask him out _today_.

Jessica, however, didn’t look disheartened. “Oh!” she said, and she shot him an apologetic smile. “Of course – that’s totally fine! What about this Friday, then?”

“Er – okay.” Two days’ wait wasn’t so bad, he supposed.

He had a _date_. He still wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Great!” Jessica said cheerfully. “I’ll find you then. And – your brother’s name is Andrew, right?”

Jonathan blinked. Sure, Jessica had always been one of the few people who seemed truly nice to him, but he’d never realized Jessica had paid such close attention to him.  “Um, yeah.” A tentative warmth blossomed in his chest.

“Tell Andrew happy birthday from me, okay? I’ll see you in calculus tomorrow!”

“S-sure.”

And as Jessica turned and bounced away, Jonathan found he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the hypnotizing bob of her ponytail. A stunned smile ghosted across his lips. Even if this was all a dream, at least it was a good one.

* * *

Jonathan had almost reached his house when a sudden scampering behind him made him turn. Behind him, he saw Andrew hurrying up the sidewalk to catch up, his bag swinging wildly from his shoulder.

“Hi, Andrew,” he said, as Andrew, panting slightly, skidded to a halt beside him. “Have a good day?”

Andrew pulled a face. “We had cardio evaluation in gym today,” he replied. “So, _ugh_. But computer class was cool. I finished my project last week, so Miss Rosenberg let me play Dungeons and Dragons on the forum.”

“Yeah, Willow’s cool.”

Andrew nodded enthusiastically. “What about you?”

“Oh, my day was fine . . . I got asked to prom, actually.”

“ _. . . What_?! No _way!_ ”

Jonathan ducked his head to hide the grin playing around his lips. “Yeah, seriously. Jessica Albright asked me after school.”

“Are you lying?” Andrew demanded, voice inching into a whine. “I bet you’re making it up!”

“No! She gave me a card and everything – look.” The card was clasped in Jonathan’s left hand, as he’d been unwilling to push it into his cluttered bag, and now he held it out proudly to Andrew.

Andrew took the card and scowled at it, as if scrutinizing it for forgery. But evidently, even he thought that there was no way the elegant calligraphy could be made by the same hand that scrawled out Jonathan’s chicken scratch, because when he looked back up, his eyes were wide with awe. “ _Dude_. You got a _date_.”

“Yeah, and we’re going out on Friday, too,” Jonathan added. “For ice cream.”

“ . . . Are you gonna kiss her?”

Promptly, the tips of Jonathan’s ears went pink. “Shut up, Andrew.”

But Andrew just grinned and nudged him mischievously with an elbow. “You _aaare_. You totally _are_ gonna kiss her!”

“Andrew, _shut up_.”

“Jonathan and Jessica, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—“

“God, how old _are_ you?”

“You’re the one blushing,” Andrew pointed out smugly.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t shut up, I won’t give you your birthday present.”

“ . . . Wait, that’s not fair!” Andrew protested, crossing his arms with a petulant scowl. “And Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you do that, anyway.”

“ _They_ only know about the gift card I’m giving you at dinner with the rest of the presents. They don’t know about this one – and they won’t believe you if you try to tell them there’s another present.”

“Hey, you just ruined the surprise! You told me—“ But then, Andrew broke off, as the rest of what Jonathan had said sunk in. “ . . . Wait. You’re getting me _two_ presents?”

Jonathan lifted one eyebrow. “Only if you can stay quiet until we get to the house.”

Andrew’s eyes gleamed, and the rest of the walk to the house was as silent as Jonathan could ever remember it being, at least as far as walking with his brother was concerned. Jonathan took advantage of the quiet to turn the card from Jessica over and over in his hands, as if trying to memorize every square inch.

But the moment they set foot in the entrance hall of their house, Jonathan suddenly found his arm held captive, as Andrew snatched at his elbow.

“I was quiet,” he declared. “Now gimme!”

“Don’t you want me to wrap it first?” Jonathan asked.

Andrew appeared to consider this for a moment. But, ultimately, he shook his head. “No. Give it to me now.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but he stuck his hand into this front pocket and pulled out the small, runed pouch that he had retrieved from his locker that afternoon. He pulled open the mouth of the pouch, and then tipped it upside-down, over Andrew’s outstretched palm.

“Oh, a Star Wars necklace!” Andrew said, as a pendant tumbled into his hand, the black cord settling around it like a nest.

“Kind of. Look at it.”

Obediently, Andrew pulled the necklace up and peered at it.

The chrome pendant was indeed cut into the shape of the Rebel Alliance insignia, the metal brushed and stained to mimic worn bronze. But next to the insignia hung a small, obsidian stone, and as Andrew turned the pendant over, his eyes widened slightly.  

“That’s a elhaz rune!”

Jonathan nodded, as Andrew ran his thumb wonderingly over the _y_ -shaped etching on the back. “Yeah. I charmed it, so it also works as a ward against malicious forces – both supernatural and mundane.”

“Dude, I have my own talisman! That is _so cool_!”

Excitedly, Andrew pulled the cord over his neck. He rested the chrome insignia in the palm of his hand and stared at it, a grin wide on his face.

“That is so cool,” he said again.

Jonathan shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Then, suddenly, the breath was knocked out of him, and he found his face smooshed up against a shoulder as Andrew wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Thank you! It’s _awesome_!”

“Er – okay. You’re welcome,” Jonathan replied, his voice muffled against the material of Andrew’s sweatshirt. He tried to squirm away, but Andrew clung on, and so Jonathan had to settle for awkwardly patting his back.

When Andrew finally pulled away, he was still clutching the chrome pendant in one fist.

“Dude, I just had an idea – when you go prom shopping, can I come? I wanna help! You can even borrow my talisman if you want. Does it protect against social embarrassment?”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, not sure whether to be flattered or offended by Andrew’s ‘generosity’. “Uh, the talisman is for you, so no thanks. And I guess you can come, but I was going to go look at tux rentals tomorrow after school – don’t you have robotics club? I mean, I suppose I could go later, if you want.”

“No, that’s okay! I, uh . . . suddenly don’t feel like going to robotics club anymore, actually.”

Andrew’s thumb was rubbing absently against the edge of his pendant.

“Well, okay,” Jonathan replied. “So, uh, come home tomorrow after school, and we’ll go then.”

Andrew nodded eagerly.

As they moved into the kitchen, where two large cupcakes had been set out, one with a candle at the top, Jonathan hung back for a moment, a small smile on his lips.

Andrew was one of the nosiest, most hare-brained, most _irritating_ people Jonathan had ever met, and living with him often made Jonathan want to tear out his own hair. But . . . Andrew was also affectionate, and enthusiastic, and endlessly well-meaning.

Growing up with Andrew meant alternating fistfights and sudden hugs; it meant six-hour movie marathons and kicking over the popcorn as they fought for the remote.Andrew would steal Jonathan’s Babylon 5 novels, and in turn, Jonathan would take snatch Andrew’s Star Wars action figures. They curled up on each other during long car rides (or, more accurately, Andrew curled up on Jonathan, and Jonathan never pushed him away), and dueled viciously with lightsabers until both of them were bruised and grinning. Jonathan helped protect Andrew from bullies; Andrew helped protect Jonathan from himself.

Andrew might just be one of the most infuriating younger brothers on the planet, but Jonathan couldn’t imagine growing up without him at his side.

As Andrew put the cupcakes out on plates, Jonathan reached over and lit Andrew’s candle with a wave of his hand.

“Happy birthday,” he said. With a warm smile, he patted Andrew’s back.

Andrew grinned, and blew out the candle.


End file.
